Get out Alive
by Bad Company
Summary: Two weeks after Donna's death, the members of SAMCRO cling to this new, damaged version of the club. And Jax must decide if justice is worth the broken bonds of brotherhood.
1. Chapter 1

**Get out Alive**

By Bad Company

Disclaimer: I don't own any of Sons, Charming, associated characters, etc.

A/N: I've been working on an original novel this summer, and had sworn off fanfiction for good...or so I thought. I'm not really sure where I'm going with this story. I had intended it as a oneshot, but knowing me, I'll find a way to drag it out. I love all the guys, especially Tig, so you know I can't bash on him for long. And, as much as I'd like to be Scottish myself, I won't attempt to write Chibs' accent. Too hard, my friends.

Reviews always appreciated!

**Jax**

The rage was a living thing; a shifting, crawling, liquid sort of creature that forever slithered between the folds of his brain. At times it called itself sorrow, others fatigue. He renounced it, feared it, denied it, and channeled it through his limbs in fits of violence. He knew, in a way, that it had been brooding deep within the recesses of his soul for years. Since the day his father had been turned to hamburger beneath the wheels of that eighteen wheeler. It stirred, restless, when he thought of Abel and what had almost been. It had fluttered, beating against his ribcage like the wings of a crow when he read the name _Lowell__ Harland Sr. _on that toe tag. A part of him that he chose to ignore had become aware that day. Betrayal had made itself evident.

But it had been Donna that had confirmed it. He remembered that shy, secret smile she had slipped to his best friend in between classes back in high school. He could see that proud, beaming mama smile she'd worn the day Ellie was born and he'd visited them at St. Thomas. And the image of her bloody, broken head on the pavement haunted his memory every time he closed his eyes.

That night he had held his brother's head and let him weep on his shoulder. That night the fragile balance of things had changed. Forever. Never to return. The rage had consumed him full-force. It had been two weeks and he struggled daily to keep the tremors in check. He could squelch it, he could choose to ignore its whispers, but the rage was always there. As transient and free-flowing as the smoke that curled up from the end of his cigarette.

"Jackie-boy!" the insistent, guttural call echoed from somewhere across the clubhouse and Jax lurched forward, the front feet of his chair landing on the rug. "Get in here!" Chibs called again.

He didn't know how long he'd been sitting in his old room, but the shadows had stretched across the floor and taken the shapes of distorted human fingers. The place was empty now, save for the bed, dresser and chair. All his photos, his memorabilia...the things ATF hadn't smashed in their raid, they had all been moved back to the house he'd shared with Wendy for a time. He didn't really know why he'd come back in here. He should have stayed out amongst the others, where it was too loud for the rage to take shape.

"Jax!" Chibs called again, louder this time.

"Coming!" He snuffed his cigarette out on the top of the dresser, picked up his beer, and went out into the hall. He pulled the door shut behind him out of habit.

Chibs and Half-Sack were on the couch in the main room, watching Rocky pound the shit out of Apollo Creed on the old console TV. The image on the screen froze mid-punch and Chibs went to the TV, gesticulating with the end of the remote. "See, Prospect?" he looked back to ensure that his pupil was listening. "Thats how ya do it."

Half-Sack nodded vigorously. The kid ate up anything the street savvy Scot had to say. His sponsor in the club and his idol both in and out of the ring.

"Whats up?" Jax asked, hoping he hadn't been called in on movie analysis.

Chibs straightened and sobered a bit. "Boss is lookin for you."

"Chapel?"

The older man nodded. His tight, brown eyes flickered to the door of their meeting room, narrowed in question, then returned to Jax. He wouldn't ask, not out loud, and never in front of the Prospect. But Chibs had always been in Jax's corner, from the time the latter was a long-haired, rebellious teenager. He wasn't just a brother, he was an uncle, a confidant. He was the only one besides Opie who could read him.

Which made it harder to keep the rage from him.

Jax twitched what he hoped was a smile and nodded. Chibs wasn't convinced, but he returned to the couch.

Clay was, as promised, seated at the head of the redwood table. He faced the back wall, his profile accentuated by the smoldering cigar he held between clenched teeth.

Jax closed the door silently behind him and leaned backward against it. Two weeks before he'd come into this room and asked his step-father if he'd ordered the hit on Opie. The one that had killed Donna instead. Two weeks ago Clay had promised that he loved Opie, that he'd never hurt him. Donna's death had been the result of gangster retaliation gone awry.

Clay had lied.

The club President rotated his chair slowly, rested his cigar between two raised fingers, and lifted his chin. "We need to talk." His voice was low, gravelly and full of the age that he normally hid so well.

Jax nodded, but couldn't bring himself to speak just yet. He moved to take his usual chair, the one that signified his position as Vice President, but hesitated. He did not, at the moment, want to be that close to Clay. Instead, he settled into the chair at the foot of the table. Piney's seat.

Clay drew and held his gaze for a moment. Thoughts juggled, shifted, and coalesced behind the blue eyes of the SAMCRO leader. He inhaled, exhaled dragon plumes of smoke through his nostrils, and put both elbows on the table.

Jax felt himself do the same. He leaned forward in anticipation. The rage danced inside his head and he shoved it aside roughly. There was a time and place for emotion, but this was not either. This was church. It was only business here.

"Opie approached me," Clay began at last. "He apologized for his...wavering alliance. He wants back in all the way. Like before Chino."

"He already said that," Jax said. "After he got back from Stockton. He told you then that he was back in."

Clay gave a facial shrug. "A lot of shit's happened since then...Donna," he sighed. "I just want to you to look after him, watch his back. After everything that went down, I wouldn't be surprised if he was a little fubar between the ears."

"He's grieving," Jax ground his teeth. "Just cuz he's fucked up it doesnt mean he isn't in this all the way."

Clay held up his hands defensively. "I know. I know. He needs the club right now, more than ever. I just wanna make sure there's someone there to remind him of that."

Jax pulled his bottom lip between his teeth to keep from saying what he wanted to. To keep from telling his step-father and President to go fuck himself.

And to keep from screaming because he couldnt believe the man he'd come to think of as his father was capable of such an atrocity. The layers of their brotherhood, their friendship...the affection was too deep and interwoven into the fabric of his heart to ignore, to throw out like yesterday's trash.

But he could never go along with this paranoid line of thinking. There were pressures that went along with being president, things he had only read about in his fathers journal, that could warp the mind after a while. Loyalty took principle over love and allowed fear to take root. Fears that, this time, had manifested in murder.

"Is that it?" Jax stood, anxious to be out of the room.

"Yeah."

He left, only aware that he'd been taking shallow breaths when he stepped back into the main living area of the clubhouse. He let the air tainted by cigarette smoke and beer residue fill his lungs and exit in a rush that left him light headed.

Chibs and Half-Sack had been joined by Tig. The dark haired, flint-eyed Sergeant at Arms stood a little ways behind the couch, arms folded, not actually part of the action. He turned at the sound of the door latching and for a handful of seconds locked stares with Jax. His face was, as always, hard, harsh, and guarded. It was the face of a killer.

The rage flared and Jax felt his hands curl into fists. His knuckles were still sore and recalled the feel of Tig's cheekbone rushing into them. In that instant, brotherhood be damned, Jax knew that he would finish the job he'd started. For Opie, for Donna, for Ellie and Kenny Winston, for Abel, for the club, for Lowell Harland Sr., for his long dead father, and for a final release of the rage, Jax would kill Alex Trager.

Tig turned away, creases sprouting at the edges of his nostrils as he frowned. He knew what awaited him. And in some dark, twisted part of that freakish mind of his, he probably wanted it.

The hourglass had been flipped on SAMCRO. Jax felt the grains slipping through his fingers.


	2. Chapter 2

**Clay**

Clay closed his phone and stared at it. Rosen had scheduled a hearing for the next day with a judge he promised was a "stickler" for hard evidence. No witness, no weapon, no case. Bobby was coming home. Good news was good news, regardless of the time, and he knew the guys needed something positive right now.

He, on the other hand, didn't feel much like celebrating. What Gemma had said about her son's restless spirit was true, as much as he tried to deny it. Jax wanted someone to answer for what had happened. Clay was confident in his bond with his step-son. In the long run, this Donna thing wouldnt tear them apart.

At least he hoped not.

He sucked down the last of his cigar and crushed it out. His knees and his ankles and his elbows creaked when he stood, and his face creased with sympathy for them. Every day he got older, Jax got closer to ascending the throne; a thought he suppressed when he could. He pushed it away now. If he never thought about that day, maybe it wouldn't come.

Out in the main room, Juice sat behind the bar with his lap-top, the open screen dancing blue light across those big, puppy dog eyes of his. Chibs and the Prospect were on the couch, reliving all the Rocky movies in a day-long marathon. The kid had a fight coming up in a week or so and Clay figured the Scot was putting more than enough effort into his boxing prodigy. Something to take his mind off things he supposed.

"I just talked to Rosen," he announced, and all heads turned to him. The TV was muted. "He said if things go well tomorrow at the hearing, Bobby's coming home."

Chibs burst into that sudden, raucous laughter of his that was almost speech-like and completely unintelligible.

"Really?" Half-Sack grinned.

"No way!" Juice closed his lap-top and leaned forward eagerly. "No charges?"

Clay shrugged, feeling his own grin sneak up on him. "That witness was the state attorney's only lead. Without her, no case. No jail time."

"Aw, its a beautiful thing!" Chibs clapped.

Clay nodded. "Yeah. I'll talk to Gem, I'm sure shell wanna be in on the party planning." He surveyed the room and realized it was just the four of them.

"Where the hell is everybody?"

**Tig**

Sometimes, late at night, in that twilight state before actual sleep, he could swear he heard the thrum of chopper blades overhead. But when he started awake, he realized it was only the thunder of a bike on the other side of the cinder block wall. And sometimes, when a whore called him "daddy" her voice squealed at the end like Dawn's used to when she was three and wanted him to tell her a bedtime story.

And sometimes, when his mind wandered he could see that blank, empty look in Donna's dead eyes as she slumped onto the steering wheel.

He didn't know when it had happened, when hed stopped actually being alive. He figured that at some point he'd lost all touch with the human part of his soul and been overtaken by pure, animalistic sensation. The need for food, pavement, and sex. The world was a nasty bitch. Tenacity kept you alive, brute strength kept you on top, and loyalty kept you from having to worry about the bigger picture. He had joined the Corps because he was good at taking orders, because he would sooner die than dishonor his organization. A man like him needed an organization, an anchor. It was what had drawn him to the Sons. That same, unwavering loyalty had stripped away his conscious. Had tainted his soul. And now he would pay for it, most likely with his life.

"You know, you have any more and I'm gonna have to sweep you up with the peanut shells," a female voice broke through the haze of alcohol and he lifted watery eyes to find the bartender propped up on an elbow in front of him.

She looked maybe nineteen, dark, glossy hair streaked with auburn highlights. She had these perfectly sculpted rose petal lips that were painted pink and twitched to the side in a knowing smile. Leaning across the bar, she offered him a view of ample cleavage that was most likely intentional. Tig hadn't failed to notice her perky ass and those painted-on jeans with strategic rips under the pockets when he'd come in. Every man in this dump was slavering over her, shooting her winks over the rims of their glasses and stuffing her tip jar to excess. But he hadn't come all the way out to Lodi for some tail. This spot was quiet, boring even. It was a good place to stew in his juices and it was dumb luck that it was the only bar on the strip that had a jukebox that was forever stuck on the Allman Brothers. Nothing like a little "Midnight Rider" to go with your Jack.

He frowned down at his empty shot glass and slid it towards her. "One more, sweetheart."

She arched a dark brow. "And a cab?"

He may have been well on his way to shit-faced, but he could still fire her a fierce scowl. "Just gimme the goddamned drink."

She shoved away and retrieved the bottle from the back wall. "Jeez, are all you damn bikers so touchy?"

He frowned at that. He never wore his cut when he came out here alone.

She smirked as she poured him another shot. "What? You think you're inconspicuous or something?" She gestured to his right arm.

He looked, and mentally kicked himself when he saw that the sleeve of his t-shirt had ridden up, revealing the bottom half of his reaper tattoo.

"You're a Son, right?"

Who did this bitch think she was? He stared a hole through her, willing her away with those ice blue eyes of his that had been called crazy by more than a few. He'd come to rely on his ability to frighten people off, maybe a little too much. Because as the revelries died down each night, the hang-arounds and crow eaters were always drawn to Jax's blond hair or Chibs' good natured come-ons. But he spooked most of them. Women only wanted to fuck him if they got off on danger, or if they thought he had enough sway with the club to earn them some kind of status.

"My old man used to know something about the Sons," the girl continued, oblivious. "Back in the day that is. He's too busy these days to be mixed up with that stuff."

"What the hell are you doing?" Tig finally couldn't help but ask. He glanced a hand across the headache that was building between his eyes. This bitch was really trying his patience.

She leaned across the bar again, resting her chin on her upraised hand. "I dont know much, but I know you MC guys don't make a habit of riding alone. You've been coming in here, what, two weeks now? There's bars in Charming. You're running from something."

Anger tightened in his gut and started burning through the layers of fog the whiskey had generated. "Running, huh?" there was venom in his voice.

She nodded.

"You don't know shit."

She shrugged. "Whatever. Look, so long as you're here...I get off in another hour or two and my dad's not home tonight."

"What?" he sat back, incredulous. "Are you shitting me? What are you, like, twelve?"

She frowned for the first time. Her perfect pink lips curled downward in an almost graceful motion. "Twenty-six, asshole," she spat. She shook her head. "Just forget it. I dont know why I thought you might be nicer than you look." She stomped off, hips swinging.

Tig glanced down the length of the bar, at the row of half-drunk patrons. He couldn't quite process what the girl had said. Nice? Out of all these construction workers, truckers, and farmers, she thought _he _might be nice?

He stared down into his whiskey, twirling the amber liquid around the glass. Somehow, Donna's face materialized at the bottom, and he threw it back before she could haunt him anymore.

**Jax**

"Mom?" Jax pulled his key out of the lock as he pushed the door to. Gemma's Caddy was in the drive.

"Hey, baby," she called. "I'm in here."

He found her in the baby's room, seated in the rocking chair, Abel cradled in her lap. She smiled when he entered, but the expression was a little cautious. There had been a notable tension between the two of them since the funeral. Gemma knew that Jax knew but was determined to play dumb about the whole thing. She didn't want him gunning for her husband's bodyguard. Who would then fling himself in front of Clay like a good dog?

"Wheres the doctor?" Gemma asked.

Jax felt his features warp into an involuntary frown. "She had to work late tonight. She doesn't live here, ya know."

She gave a facial shrug. "Might as well. " She flicked a glance his direction and sighed. Tara wouldn't be the best of subjects at the moment and she knew it. She stood, careful not to wake Abel, and lowered him down into the crib. "His appetite has really picked up. He's gaining weight."

"That's good."

She sighed again, sounding perturbed. "I guess I better get home then. Did you hear? Bobby's gettin' out."

Jax was surprised. He figured he would have gotten a phone call about something that big. "Really?"

His mom smiled. "Yeah. I'm sure well have a big coming home party. I've got lots to do." She stepped forward and pressed a kiss against the corner of his mouth. "Love you, baby."

"You too," he offered her a half smile.

She twitched her mouth, knowing he wasn't quite right, but not ready to push. "See you tomorrow?"

"Yeah."

"I left a sandwich in the fridge for you," she called on her way out.

He sighed when she was gone, like her absence made it easier to breathe. He crossed the room to the crib and propped his elbows on the rail, leaning down over his son. He still had that baby smell; a scent he had never imagined could trigger such an emotional stirring inside him. Abel fidgeted in his sleep, tiny hand brushing at the Sons of Anarchy fleece cap he wore.

Jax prayed that when that logo adorned his sons back, the reaper would represent an organization far less corrupt.

**Tig**

Tig slipped his shades on, then off, then on again, trying to decide if a bug to the eye would be worth seeing a little more clearly. He wasn't quite seeing double, but his eyes didn't seem to move quite as fast as his head. He checked his cell, it was almost two a.m. Cops would be out looking for DUIs. Great.

Loud, drunken male laughter ignited from somewhere behind him. Light from inside the bar swelled brighter as the door opened. And then a female voice issued a string of profanities foul enough to make a man blush. There was more laughter. And then a squeal. A pained sound.

Tig turned, nearly toppled his bike, and waited for his head to quit swimming. Slowly, the shadowed shapes of three men took form up in front of the bar. There was only one car left in the lot, an old beat-up Jeep, and the three were moving towards it slowly, wrestling with something.

"I'll kill you, mother fucker!"

He recognized the bartender's voice and at once the scene became clear. The overly talkative, glossy-haired, doe-eyed little girl was about to get gang-raped.

He was at once overcome by that dark, empty sensation that slid over him like a well-fitted glove. It was the apathy, the blackness that prevented him from giving a shit about anyone or anything.

The girl screamed again, more desperate this time. Suddenly, he saw Donna. A mental image of her limp, lifeless face pierced the emptiness and tightened something inside his chest. He blinked, attributing it to a drunken hallucination. But she wouldn't go away. She was staring at him with glassy, dead eyes. Accusing him.

_"We don't kill women," _Jax's voice was in his head.

_"Oh, baby, baby, baby..." _Opie was on his hands and knees, pulling his dead wife against his chest.

_"We dont kill women."_

_"I depend on you so much for that shit, sometimes I forget the weight of it," _Clay said.

_"I forget the weight of it."_

_"...the weight of it..."_

_"...thought you might be nicer than you looked..."_

He didn't realize he'd moved until he was half-way across the parking lot. He pulled his nine mil out of his waistband and cracked the butt of the gun across the first guy's head. He went down like a sack of hammers.

The others turned around, wide-eyed. Tig got a pop off first with the second, but the third came around at his side, lunging at him and sending both of them down in a tangle on the gravel. Adrenaline made up for intoxication and he rolled out from under the guy quickly. He sat up, saw the man coming at him, and shot him once in the chest.

The bartender screamed at the sound of the gun. The man crumpled over and his friends scrambled backward. "Holy shit!" one of them yelled. "Holy fucking shit!"

Tig stood, bringing the gun up with him. "You want some, assholes?"

They stumbled and grappled over one another, trying to get to the Jeep. They left their dead friend to bleed out on the ground, spitting gravel and jamming gears as they tore out of the lot.

The Marine in him took over and he was glad for the orderly, disciplined side of himself. He stowed his gun and knelt to check for a pulse. The guy was dead at shit. One of those benign construction workers he'd seen inside earlier. He scanned the lot, searching for witnesses. He was alone...save for the girl.

She had her arms wrapped around her middle, a fist pressed to her mouth. Her eyes were huge. "Is h-h-he..."

"Yeah." He stood and was surprised when she didn't shrink away. Something strange tickled the edges of his fuzzy brain. Something he couldnt name. It made him uncomfortable. "Go inside and call the cops," he told her. "Tell 'em one of his buddies shot him."

She didn't look up.

"Hey, you got that?"

She nodded slowly. "Yeah...yeah, I got it."

He turned back around and headed towards his bike, quickly. He would need to clear out before the five-oh showed up. He cast one, fleeting look over his shoulder and saw the door of the bar swing shut behind her.

What the fuck had he just done?


	3. Chapter 3

AN: Thanks for the kind reviews! After I wrote the first chapter, the rest of the story just came to me. I think I'm moving in a risky direction, and a long one. This isn't going to wrap itself up anytime soon, so settle in for a long ride.

**Jax**

The school bus was stopped at the curb in front of Opie's house and Jax clutched and braked his way to a slow halt behind it. Ope stood at the end of his driveway and nudged Ellie and Kenny forward gently. He, like his children, looked like he hadn't slept in a lifetime. All three Winstons had dark rings under their eyes. Ellie stifled a yawn as she ascended the bus steps. Kenny glanced up at the sound of Jax's Dyna and offered a limp wave.

Jax scrounged up a smile for the kid and waved back. He didn't miss the untied laces on his sneakers or the distinct "bed-head". Donna had been the one to get them ready for school.

The doors snapped to and the bus lurched ahead down the street, spitting black smoke and diesel fumes back into Jax's face. He coughed, waved them away, and pulled up into the drive.

"Hey, man," he killed the engine. "You aight?"

Opie folded his arms and nodded tiredly. "Yeah. Just a long night. Kenny's been havin' nightmares...won't sleep in his own bed."

Jax nodded. He supposed losing a mother could do that to a kid. He looked up at the distant look on his friend's face and frowned. "Clay says Bobby should be getting out in the next day or so. Without a witness they got no case."

"That's good news."

"He wants us all at the table this afternoon to talk about the Mayan deal too."

"I'll be there."

"Look, man, if you..."

"I said I'd be there," Opie's voice was rigid, hard. He didn't sound like himself.

"Ope," Jax tried again. "No one expects you to just bounce back. You need to take some time to -,"

"No." Opie met his gaze for the first time and his eyes were tight around the edges. Hooded and bloodless in a look that would have been far more appropriate on Tig or Happy. "The faster we work shit out with the Mayans, the closer we get to a justice with the Niners. I need this, Jax. I need it."

Jax sighed. Unlike his own rage, Opie's was of a different breed. It was wilder, driven by livid passions that left no room for thought. Passions that clouded judgment and led to stupid mistakes. "Okay, man," he muttered. "See you in a bit?"

"Yeah."

***

"Opie's at work today."

"Yeah."

"He alright?"

Jax shook his head. He sat on top of one of the picnic tables under the overhang of the clubhouse roof, his feet propped on the bench. Chibs sat across from him on the other table, eating an orange and spitting the seeds out on the concrete.

"Keep your wrist straight!" Chibs called to Half-Sack. The Prospect was working on the heavy bag and getting sloppy with his hits as he strained to eavesdrop on their conversation. "Kids today," he muttered. "They fought tougher back in my day." He flicked away the last scrap of peel and fired a look at Jax over the rims of his shades. "And what about you, brother? You alright?"

Jax frowned. "Why wouldn't I be?"

The Scot shrugged. "You've been quiet. Distant." He cocked his head to the side. "You ain't been yourself, Jackie-boy."

"It's a dark time for the club. Nobody's been themselves."

"Aye. That's true."

**Chibs**

The world was always slightly darker behind the lenses of his shades. It was a habit he'd picked up in Belfast; no one knew what was going on inside your head if they couldn't see your eyes.

He was glad for it today. The triangle of men at the head of the table looked like carved wooden figures. Clay stared down at the table, Tig studied the rings on his right hand, and Jax studied Tig like he was thinking up all the ways he could carve the big man into little bits.

"Alvarez wants to set a meeting," Clay said, finally lifting his gaze and casting it once around the table. "He doesn't hold us responsible for the Niner retaliation and he still wants that shipment Cameron promised us."

"Why would he hold us responsible?" Piney grumbled from the end of the table.

Clay shook his head. "I dunno. That's just what he said."

"Cameron's gonna be another three days or more," Chibs reminded him.

"Yeah. Well, I haven't set a date yet. I wanted to put it to a vote."

"We'll have to keep it quiet," Jax said, lip curling. "Laroy finds out and who knows what'll happen this time."

"Yeah," Chibs heard Tig pipe up beside him, and he watched Jax's frown widen.

The V.P. and the Sgt. at Arms had always operated on a strictly functional basis in Chibs' personal opinion. He'd helped pull them apart a time or two. And he knew where each had earned the bruises and busted lips they'd sported at the funeral.

The club was, at base, a brotherhood. If one fraternal bond was split, who was to say that it wouldn't lead to a total unraveling of the Sons? An implosion at the heart of the club.

Chibs chose to push these thoughts aside and chalk the nasty looks up to rivalry instead. Vying for Clay's approval.

"Everyone okay with a sit-down?"

Seven hands raised in approval.

"Good. On a lighter note, Rosen called today."

The chairs creaked as everyone leaned forward.

"The hearing went well. Bobby's free."

**Tig**

The rag moved across the bar and skimmed the ends of his fingers before it came to a halt.

"Oh," she said. "It's you."

"Yeah," he looked up and saw the bartender's smooth brow erupt in a maze of creases. She pulled her perfect bottom lip between her teeth and gave him a calculating look.

She had on a baggy sweatshirt tonight instead of some low-cut number that showed off her tits. Her glossy hair was pulled back. There were dark circled under eyes. "Why did you come back after...last night?" she lowered her voice.

Tig shrugged. "You didn't report me to the cops, did you?"

She frowned. "No."

"Whiskey rocks then, darlin'."

She made a face, but she fetched his drink.

Honestly, he had no idea why he'd come back here. He'd shot a man last night and that should have burned this place off the map for him. But somehow his bike had found its way across the border again and he'd wound up in his usual end stool.

"So," she set his Jack down and leaned onto the bar. "Whatever you're running from is more frightening than a murder rap in Lodi."

He squinted his blue eyes and tried to gauge her expression. He couldn't. He'd never seen a woman look that way at him before. Not ever. "I'm celebrating," he sneered. "My friend gets outta Stockton in two days."

She tilted her head like she didn't believe him. "Yeah. You look so fucking happy."

"I always look like this," he muttered, regretting the words the instant he said them. He didn't owe this bitch any sort of explanation. He'd saved her goddamned life, what else did she want?

"You always look like someone just killed your puppy?"

He scowled and she laughed.

"Sorry," she sobered. "I need to thank you though, seriously. You saved my ass last night. Not many guys would do that."

Something like an electrical impulse cracked through his head. _I don't save women, I kill them _he reasoned.

She extended a hand across the bar towards him. "I'm Holly," she said. "Holly Jessup."

He looked at her hand, then her face, then her hand, trying to decide if this was some sort of joke. She didn't want to shake his hand, did she? She wasn't really thanking him, was she?

_I don't save women, I kill them._

_Kill them._

_Kill. _

_Killer._

_You're a killer._

_Nothing but a goddamned killer, Tig._

He grasped her tiny little hand in his. It was soft. "Tig."


	4. Chapter 4

**Thursday Night**

**Tig**

Ms. Holly Jessup, bartender extraordinaire, had a cherry sweet paint job on her black Camaro. Tig figured she probably wasn't too concerned about his wallet chain scratching its mirrored surface as she pushed him backward against it and started working on his belt buckle. Her little hands moved fast, her breathy laugh was flavored with the whiskey she'd brought with them out into the parking lot.

His head was swimming from the alcohol...and the taste of her cotton candy lip gloss. She had to be half-drunk too; that was the only thing that could explain her sliding the zipper down on his jeans. She hooked a finger into the elastic band of his boxers.

He grabbed both her hands in one of his, jerked them up over her head, and switched their positions easily, laying her back against the car. Her gasp turned into a more of a moan when he let her feel his erection against her belly. Her eyes went wide and he noticed, for the first time, that they were green.

"I don't know what you're after," he murmured, letting his free hand move across her breast, drawing its nipple to a hard peak through the fabric of her shirt. "But you only get one night with me. End of story." He couldn't help the small smile that crossed his lips as his fingers slid down across her belly and into the waistband of her jeans.

Her brows pulled together, she bit down hard on her bottom lip as she arched into the scalding stroke of his hand. "Just shut up and fuck me," she whispered.

**Friday**

**Jax**

The sun was just getting to that point in its decent that set the steel gutters ablaze along the roofline of the clubhouse. Jax sat on the picnic table between Chibs and Juice, taking his nervous energy out on the last bit of his cigarette. Clay stood off to the side, hands on his hips. The Prospect was propped up against a support post, raking his hands through his mess of strawberry blond hair. They all watched the Teller-Morrow gates. Waiting.

"I wonder if, when he was inside, you know..." Juice trailed off and arched his brows in question.

Jax frowned.

"You know, what?" Chibs asked.

"Do you think," the youngest patch holder looked around and leaned forward conspiratorially. "Do you think he...had to reach for the soap or anything?"

"Are you shitting me?" Jax was incredulous.

Chibs coughed a laugh. "Why don't you ask him when he gets here? Maybe he can show you."

Juice sat back, brown eyes widening to an alarmed roundness. "You mean like..."

"Shut up, Juice," Jax sighed.

"Here we go," Clay said, drawing their eyes back to the gate.

A black, cloth-top Mercedes pulled into the lot. Rosen and Bobby.

Everyone was up and waiting as the car cruised to a stop. Jax grinned as the passenger door opened and Bobby exited as gracefully as someone of his weight and stature could be expected. He turned and cast an appraising look across the clubhouse, the lot, sucked in a deep breath, and nodded. "I gotta say, it is damn good to be home, boys."

Chibs was the first to grab him up in a bear hug. "Good to see ya, brother!" he crowed. He shoved back and nodded. "You look good. You lost some weight?"

"Yeah," Bobby knocked him on the shoulder but laughed. "'Bout as much as you, you fat bastard."

"Hey, Bobby," Jax hugged him next, slapping him on the back. "You a'ight?"

"I am now," he sighed. "Hey, Sack," he knocked the Prospect on the arm good naturedly. "Juice, how you been, you dork?"

"Brother!" Clay embraced him. "Glad to have you back!"

They traded hugs and shoves and laughter. "Alright, I'm starved," Bobby said at last.

"We got that taken care of," Clay assured. "Gemma's been busting her balls all day."

"Sounds good." Bobby's smile faltered for a second as he surveyed the five of them. Jax knew who he was looking for. "Where's Tig?"

**Tig**

"Well, what happened to 'one night, end of story'?" she mocked as she set the bottle down in front of him.

"Shut up," he made a disgusted face. He couldn't believe his own stupid actions. One night, end of story, and here he sat.

She leaned towards him, closer that she should have, green eyes dancing. "Was I that good?" she asked, grinning wickedly. "You just had to have another taste?"

"No," he said louder than he'd intended. The guy on the next stool shot him a curious look.

She shrugged and stepped back. "Whatever." She pulled a shot glass from the overhead rack and poured him a double. "I thought your friend was supposed to get out today. Why the hell aren't you at the homecoming party, huh?"

_Because I don't want to have to explain that I killed Donna. Because I feel guilty every time I look at another human being. Because no one in their right mind should dare call me his friend._

"None of you goddamned business," he snapped.

"Fine," she sounded miffed. "I won't bother you again."

***

"What about your old man?"

"Dad?" she frowned as she straddled his lap. "He won't be home tonight." She pressed her lips against his, something he usually didn't allow, but hers were pillow soft and opened instantly at the slightest pressure from his tongue.

He wanted to devour her, taste every part of her. He already had, but she had been right hours before back at the bar, he wanted more. He wanted to roll her under him on the mattress and fuck her into oblivion. He growled at the way she twitched her hips and moved against his dick, teasing him through both their jeans. He clamped fingers around her bare waist that he knew would leave bruises.

Her hands left his shoulders as she reached back to undo the clasp on her bra. The straps slid down her arms and for the life of him, he couldn't think of anything else he was supposed to be doing.

***

Tig rolled through the gate at T-M a little after five. The party had dwindled, the non-patch-holders having drifted off to the far reaches of the lot with a sweetbutt or two. The heavy scents of the grill lingered; they'd had ribs and chicken to name just a few. He backed his Dyna into its usual spot, killed the engine, toed out the kickstand, and...sat. He stared at the carnage of empty cans and wayward paper plates through his shades and felt like the lowest human being on the planet. He'd missed Bobby's party. On purpose. He couldn't remember a time when he'd willingly skipped a club bash. Not that he hadn't gotten any pussy, that item could be checked off the list multiple times in one evening, but what was he thinking? His best friend had gotten out of the joint and he'd been with some strange bitch in Lodi? What the fuck was wrong with him?

He pulled off his helmet, shoved his shades up into his hair, and climbed off the bike with a bit of a wince. He was going to be sore after tonight.

The inside of the clubhouse looked like a battlefield. Brothers and bitches from several charters littered every couch, chair, pool table...a wreckage of spent sex and booze. He closed the door quietly and stepped over a half-naked Juice and the blond slut cuddled up next to him. The kid was snoring louder than a freight train.

"Where you been?" the voice stopped him in his tracks.

He looked up and found Bobby on a stool behind the bar. The other man crushed out his cigarette and stood.

"You missed the party," he said.

Tig felt at once ashamed and stupid, creeping through the clubhouse like this. But he couldn't stop the smile that split his lips. "Bobby."

"How you doin, killer?" Bobby stepped up and accepted his hug.

_Killer._Guilt rippled through Tig again, and he pushed away quickly. "Man, it's good to have you home."

Bobby nodded. "Good to _be _home. I don't know how you ate that damn prison food for five years."

Tig smiled reflexively at the joke, but wasn't humored in the least.

"Where were you tonight? You're not one to miss a bash, brother."

"I know, I know." He shrugged. "I had some things to take care of."

Bobby motioned to the stools and they sat. He pulled out a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue and waved it in offering.

"Yeah." Tig watched the dark liquid fill his glass, knowing he didn't need any more and not caring.

"I heard about Donna."

Tig nearly chocked on the Scotch.

"Terrible shit," Bobby shook his head. "Just like Laroy to botch a hit."

"Yeah." Tig stared down into his glass. "Just like Laroy."

**Saturday Night**

**Tig**

Holly sighed; a soft, contented little sound that he felt rustle through his chest hair. Her hand twitched as she stretched, fingertips moving against his belly.

He lay on his back, staring up at the water stains on the ceiling of the shitty little bedroom in the shitty little house she claimed to share with her father. She was on her side, head on his shoulder, her luscious, naked body fitted against him like a glove.

He hated cuddling, abhorred it, had shoved more than his fair share of bitches out of his bed before the sweat could dry. He brought his cigarette to his lips with his free hand, the one that wasn't curled around the little bartender.

"That night," her voice was lazy and tired, dreamy even. "That wasn't the first time you've killed someone." It was a statement, not a question.

He exhaled and didn't answer.

"Why did you do it?"

"I'm a killer," he muttered, agitated. Why did she have to ask questions? Didn't she know she was pushing it when she raked her fingernails across his chest?

"No," she scolded. "That's not what I meant. Why did you decide to help me?"

He didn't know, probably never would.

**Jax**

"What's the matter?"

Jax sighed, stroking his fingers through Tara's nearly black hair. She lay on his chest, her head snugged up under his chin. Her finger lightly traced the stubble along his jaw and he swallowed away the lump in his throat.

"Nothing for you to worry about," he assured.

He could almost see her frown in the dark. "More SAMCRO stuff?"

"Yeah."

"Jax, what happened to Donna...that wasn't your fault. You know that, right?"

He didn't know it. In fact, the opposite was true. He had been suspicious the day Ope came home from the wit pro facility, when Clay and Tig had stayed behind in the chapel. He should have done something then. Now it was too late and he was left with nothing but regrets.

"Baby." She sat up and he could see the whites of her eyes glitter. "You have to move on from this. You've said so yourself that you can't change who Clay is -,"

"It's not about Clay," he bit off, suddenly aggravated with her.

"Then who?"

He rolled his head to the side, staring at the red digits on the clock. It was three a.m.

She leaned forward, rubbing a hand across the smoothness of his chest and trying to draw his attention. "He may not have pulled the trigger himself, but you and I both know this was Clay. He _wanted _Opie dead, Jax."

"Tara -,"

"Bottling that up, it's not healthy. You have to get this out of you before it eats you alive."

"This is none of you business, Tara," he snapped. "Leave it alone."

The sheets rustled violently and he heard her bare feet hit the carpet.

"Where are you going?" he called when he realized that she was, in fact, leaving.

"To sleep on the couch," she growled, slamming the door.

The baby monitor on the night stand crackled and Abel's thin wail pierced the night.

"Damnit," he muttered. "Just goddamnit."


	5. Chapter 5

AN: You guys are so sweet! I'm glad youre hanging on to my whole "Tig has a soul" thing here. This was originally supposed to be a little more Jax-centered, but I've discovered he isn't as much fun to write as everyone else. Most likely because we see so much of him on the show - less creative wiggle room. And I haven't used Chibs enough yet, so, here goes...

**Gemma**

Mondays were busy at the shop, everyone dropped off their cars before work. Not only did the phone ring relentlessly, but Abel was colicky and the kid had inherited his daddy's lungs.

At noon, Gemma switched the incoming call line over to voicemail and scooped up the baby. He'd been coming to work with her four days a week because Jax was obligated first and foremost to the club, Wendy was off at her sober house, Tara was a bitch, and, truth be told, Gemma didn't trust anyone to look after her grandbaby properly. She'd had Lowell and one of the other mechanics set up Jax's old crib in one corner of the tiny office and she rocked and bottle fed him in between calls and paperwork.

"C'mon, baby boy," she soothed, bouncing him gently in her arms. "What's all the fuss about, huh? Does your tummy hurt?"

There was a loud bang out in the parking lot and she went to the window, moving Abel to one arm and gapping the blinds apart with two fingers. Juice had backed the tow truck into a customer's car and now stood staring at the carnage, his hands clenched helplessly on top of his shaved head.

She shook her head. Poor stupid kid.

She started to retreat and noticed Tig propped up against the far wall of the garage, smoking and talking on the phone, and decidedly not interested in the giant blunder his "brother" had just committed. She felt a frown twist her lips and wasn't sure why. The Sgt at Arms wore an unreadable expression, his blue eyes hidden behind his shades.

"You know, this isn't a daycare," Clay's voice sounded behind her.

She shrugged without turning. "Somebody's gotta watch him...are you offering?"

"Naw," he stepped up beside her and extended a finger that the baby swatted at with his tiny hands. "He is cute though."

She nodded, distracted. Bobby, Jax, Chibs, and Opie had come over to both help, and chastise Juice, but Tig hadn't moved. Lost in his phone call.

"What're you lookin' at?" Clay asked.

"Tigger." She sighed and stepped back, resuming her rocking and pacing. "Something's not right with him, Clay."

He sighed. "What else is new? Everyone around here's fucked up apparently." He sat down in the chair she'd abandoned and propped his boots up on the desk. He shook his head. "There's nothing wrong with Tig. He never lets any of that shit get to him."

"Oh no?" she arched a defiant brow that made him frown. "That man is a goddamned freak show and a half, but Donna...that did something to him. He felt that."

"C'mon. He doesn't feel guilty, not about shit."

"Then where's he been, huh? He's been gone every night this week; he missed Bobby's party for Christ's sake! Bobby. He's the closet thing he's ever had to a friend and he wasn't here?"

Clay sighed.

"Call it what you want, but if you ignore this, it'll come back and bite you in the ass. If he's distracted, who's to say next time the slugs wont be in _your _ass instead?"

He held up his hands. "Now look, don't get all hysterical..."

"He is your _bodyguard_," she hissed. "He's like a goddamned robot..."

"Alright, alright. Jesus. I'll talk to him."

"You will?"

"Yeah."

She glanced down at Abel. His little eyelids were drooping. "You know I only say it 'cause I love you."

"Yeah. I'm touched."

**Chibs**

Juice didn't appear to have suffered any sort of trauma after taking out the trunk and rear window of someone's Volvo. He, in fact, took great pleasure in laughing his ass off as the Prospect came jogging through the main drive of the parking lot for the fifth time.

"Five more laps, Prospect!" Chibs hollered.

Half-Sack groaned as he jogged past them. He had a sweat stain that ran from the neck of his t-shirt down to the middle of his shorts.

"Not that this isn't fun, but does he _really _have to run out here?" Juice asked. "It's a hundred and ten out here on the pavement."

Chibs fired him a skeptical look over the rims of his shades. "Did you _really_ have to have your pay docked for fuckin' up somebody's car?"

He looked a little sheepish. "Point taken."

"How's our nut-less wonder holdin' up?" Clay asked, his shadow falling across the two of them.

Chibs shrugged and took a swig of his beer. "He'll slaughter 'em, like always."

"Keepin' him on his toes doesn't hurt though," the club president sat down on the bench beside him.

"Aye."

"I gotta ask you something," Clay dropped his voice and Juice peered around the older man's shoulder, trying to horn in on the conspiracy. There was seriousness to his tone, one that caused Chibs to push his shades up into his hair.

"Okay."

Clay sighed. "How much time have you spent with Tig over the past week or so?"

Chibs frowned. "I dunno...I was in the clubhouse Friday when he headed out."

"He missed Bobby coming home. Did he say anything about that?"

"Not to me."

"Alright." He sighed and scrubbed a hand down his face. "I need you to follow him when he leaves tonight, but low profile. I don't want him to know."

Chibs couldn't quite believe what was being asked of him. "Really?"

"Really. Take the genius and Rocky Jr. with you in case things..." he trailed off, not needing to say that things would take a nasty turn if Tig found out he was being tailed. The kids may not have been much in the way of back-up, but they were better than nothing. Better than having Jax know about this.

Chibs nodded.

***

"Got your walkie?"

Juice nodded and held up his radio for confirmation. He adjusted his stocking cap and added his shades to the disguise as well. "Dark as shit," he muttered.

"Alright," Chibs snapped his fingers and whistled. "Hey, pay attention, kid. Don't fuck up in there, okay? You get in, get out. Got it?"

"Yeah."

He seriously doubted that Juice was slick enough to keep tabs on Tig and not get spotted, but he at least wasn't as twitchy as the Prospect. Christ, when had he become a nanny? "Off with you then."

Juice jogged off across the street and through the lot of The Black Sheep.

They had followed Tig as craftily as possible in a Chevy Express van and wound up at this dive bar in Lodi. The gravel lot was full of work vans and beat-up trucks. There was only one bike; Tig's.

Chibs shifted behind the wheel and scanned the front of the bar with binoculars. The door was just swinging shut behind Juice. If the kid screwed this up, the fallout would be toxic. Chibs hated even being here. Never in his history with the club had he been asked to spy on a brother. It unnerved him. This was new territory, a new level of trust between he and Clay. He didn't like the responsibility that brought.

"What...what happens if he spots Juice?" Half-Sack asked from the passenger seat.

Chibs shrugged. "Then we're fucked."

"Great. That's fabulous."

He sighed, lowered his binoculars and fixed Half-Sack with a pointed look. "Now, listen up, Prospect. You're not to talk about any of this, ya hear?"

The kid flinched, but nodded. "I know. I won't say nothing."

"Attaboy."

The radio crackled to life on the dash. "_It's Juice. Chibs, do you read?"_

"Read? What the hell, kid? This ain't a spy movie."

_"Errr...right, sorry."_

Chibs slid his thumb over the transmit button and arched his brows questioningly. "Did you have something you wanted to say, dear?" he asked with false patience and the Prospect chuckled.

_"Yeah. Sorry. I found Tig."_

"Well aren't you special."

Juice sighed through the radio. "_Funny. He's in here at the bar, chattin' up the bartender. Real friendly."_

Chibs smiled. "What's she wearin'?"

_"Black tank top, jeans...hey..."_

"I'm just yankin' yer chain. Come on, what else?"

_"She's not paying the other customers half as much attention. She's practically fallin' all over him."_

Chibs caught the Prospect's mild look of surprise. "Alright, Juice, come back out and we'll wait here."

_"A'ight."_

"Falling all over _Tig_?" Half-Sack asked.

"No accounting for taste." Chibs scanned the parking lot again with the binoculars. A guy in a trucker cap came staggering out with a whore under each arm. _Hey, good for him _he thought.

And then Tig came out. A girl who looked scarcely twenty was walking sideways, talking animatedly to him and holding onto his arm with both hands.

Chibs did a double take. Juice hadn't been kidding about "falling all over him". He'd never seen a sweetbutt pay the Sgt at Arms that kind of attention. No wonder he'd been MIA for the past week. She had a nice rack too.

He thumbed the radio switch. "Juice, our boy's on the move. Where the hell are you?"

Something thumped the window behind him and he couldn't help but jump. Half-Sack yelped out loud.

"Mother of Christ!" he swore at his own jumpiness, turning to see Juice bent double with laughter. "Get yer ass in here," he griped.

The rear door slid open and Juice climbed in, still chuckling. "You should have seen the looks on your faces. Priceless, man."

"Yeah, well, our mark's getting away while you get yer jollies off."

"Tig?"

"Yeah," Chibs sighed as he cranked the van to life. "He came out with his little piece of ass right after you."

"Did you see her?" Juice leaned between the two of them and peered through the windshield. "She's got tits out to here." He held his hands out in front of his chest and grinned.

"There he goes," Half-Sack pointed. "He's following that Camaro."

"Well then, so are we boys."

**Clay**

"Yeah. Yeah. I know." Clay sighed and flipped his phone closed with his chin.

"Everything okay, baby?" Gemma asked. She turned away from her cockatoo's cage and gave him that curious look that pretended to be innocent, but was anything but.

He sighed again, deeper this time, and flopped back against the pillows. "That was Chibs."

"Yeah?"

"Tig's in Lodi with some...bartender."

"Five nights in a row?"

"It's just pussy. Let him blow off some steam and be glad it's not some illegal this time."

She snorted. "Yeah. Just pussy."


	6. Chapter 6

AN: You're so right, betty-boo. I know that Kurt Sutter wrote the show for Jax's character, but he's not my favorite! It's like he threw Chibs, Juice, and Half-Sack in like the sprinkles on top of his Jax-Clay-Gemma sundae. I would LOVE some more back-story and current plot for the other guys. I had several ideas to play around with, but this story just begged to be told. In fact, truth be told, I've been thinking about writing a pre-series fic about how Chibs joined the Sons. I have this whole ex-boxer plot line planned out for him. What do ya think?

Okay, so this installment is a bit longer because I have this poly sci paper to work on for school and I may have to take a little longer getting out the rest of the story. Enjoy!

**Tig**

"I wanna visit you," Holly said. She was sitting at her wobbly kitchen table, wearing a threadbare shirt that left nothing to the imagination. She smiled impishly at him over the rim of her coffee mug.

He tried to withhold his sigh and continued rummaging through her nearly empty cabinets. "Yeah? Whad'ya call this?" he grumbled. "Where the hell do you keep the liquor around here?"

"No," she made a noise in her throat that suggested he was less than bright. "I mean, I want to come visit you at your...little clubroom...or whatever you call it."

"Clubhouse?" he turned around and scowled at her.

"Yeah. Clubhouse."

"No. Absolutely not."

"Come on," she pleaded, pouting with her sculpted lips. "I wanna see where you live."

"I said NO," he sliced a hand through the air for emphasis. Something alarmingly close to fear twisted in his gut and he didn't like it. Almost as much as he disliked the thought of her walking through the doors of the clubhouse.

"Jesus," she rolled her eyes. "Why are you so touchy?"

He growled and slammed the cabinet shut. "I'm not."

"Hey," her smile slipped and her face took on a serious expression. "You know you can talk to me, right? If there's something bothering you. I'm here, you know."

"I gotta go," he muttered.

**Chibs**

"Come on, Prospect. Is that all ya got?"

In answer, Half-Sack pummeled the big Everlast hanging bag with enough force to send Chibs staggering backward.

"Okay then," he straightened his shades and stepped back up to the bag. "Try not to kill an old man, eh?"

Half-Sack grinned. A sideways compliment was better than outright flattery in the MC world and he knew it. He went at the bag again, but with shorter, more controlled jabs this time.

"He ready for the fight Thursday?" Jax called, taking a seat on one of the picnic tables.

Chibs nodded over his shoulder at the V.P." Yeah. He's good to go."

"Good. You have him out drinking last night? I thought Clay didn't allow that shit?"

Chibs winced and hoped the expression looked like a reaction to the bag, and not Jax's question. "Well...what the boss don't know eh?" He hated being sneaky with Jax. The kid was like his nephew.

"A'ight."

"Hey, guys," Juice stepped out of the clubhouse. "I was lookin' at the security feeds on the closed circuit and..." he trailed off.

"What?" Chibs let go of the bag and turned.

Juice's eyes were wide with shock. "No way," he said. "I thought I was imagining it."

"Imagining what?" Jax asked.

He pointed out toward the parking lot and all heads turned.

Chibs figured the heat mirages licking up off the pavement must have caused the approaching car to look like a cherry '71 Camaro. As the vehicle cruised to a stop, he could have sworn the girl climbing out from behind the wheel was...

"The bartender," Juice and Half-Sack said as one.

"Who?" Jax asked.

The girl had long dark hair that was smooth as silk, tight-ass jeans that accentuated the way her hips swung when she walked, and a neckline on her tank top that delved into the far reaches of her cleavage. The bartender.

"Chibs, who is that?" Jax pressed.

The girl had spotted them and was coming towards them. She smiled in a way that was almost shy and totally contradictory to her outfit. Chibs felt his mouth go dry at this sudden cluster fuck that had fallen into his lap. He struggled to come up with a viable explanation while the girl drew ever closer. Juice and Half-Sack were looking at him with stricken faces. Jax was scowling and suspicious.

"Chibs?"

And then she was there in front of them, one booted foot cocked out to the side, hands on her hips, preventing him from coming up with an answer. "Hey," she said. "I'm assuming this is the infamous clubhouse?"

Jax climbed off the table and flicked his cigarette aside. His expression took an amused turn. "Yeah it is. Who wants to know?"

"Holly Jessup," the girl extended a hand to him that he shook with a small chuckle.

"What brings you by, darlin?"

_Oh great _Chibs thought.

She arched her brows and pulled her hand away. "Not you, pretty boy."

Juice squelched a laugh behind his hand and Chibs knew his brows mimicked Jax's; raised and confused.

"Look, girlie, if you're not a sweetbutt, you'd best clear out," Chibs said. If she didn't leave before Tig spotted her...

"Holly!"

"Beautiful," Chibs muttered.

Tig's face was a thunderhead. Chibs didn't think he'd ever seen the man so angry. Holly, however, was unfazed.

"Hey, I was lookin' for you..."

"What the fuck are you doing here?" he hissed, snatching her arm and dragging out into the parking lot away from them.

She kicked him in the shin and he let go.

"Who the hell is that?" Jax asked.

"I think," Chibs said with a defeated sigh. "That she's Tigger's girlfriend."

**Tig**

"I _told you_ not to come out here." He felt his face turn to steel, that expression that sent grown men ducking under bar tables with their tails between their legs.

Holly, unfazed, gave him an amused sneer. "You're not my dad you know."

"No? I'm old enough to be, goddamnit."

"Funny, age didn't seem to be an issue when I had my legs wrapped around your waist," she spat. "What are you afraid's gonna happen, huh? You think I'm gonna give it up to someone else? I'm not a whore. I'm not blinded by leather and cute smiles, you know."

"Everyone..." he faltered, unable to say that everyone he slept with was a whore. Because he was sure that any pretty little thing that pushed him back against her car and unzipped his pants sure to God must be a whore. She would have done it to anyone, not just him. The only thing special about him was his ability to kill women without a backward thought.

"Tig..." she sighed and stepped closer, closing the distance between them. She walked her fingers up his chest skimmed them over the reaper medallion he wore around his neck.

His heart rate spiked, not because he was aroused, but because he was acutely aware that they were standing out in the very middle of the parking lot, in broad daylight, within plain sight of anyone and everyone.

The fear that had flickered earlier returned full force, with purpose. Never in his history with the club had he had an old lady, much less a girlfriend. Andrea had filed for divorce before he'd gone to Attica, and as far as SAMCRO was concerned, there wasn't a female attached to him. That was the way he'd liked it; no one could hurt you if you had nothing to lose.

What Tara had done to Jax, what Donna had done to Opie; that kind of pain would never be his, not again.

"Tig, please. Don't make me go home today," she whispered. "Please." Her eyes lost all their fire, she wasn't pouting or trying to look sexy. She was...scared.

He didn't understand this. Fear was always associated with him, no one came to him _because _she was scared.

"Why?"

"My old man," she blinked furiously. "He - he's been off God knows where on a binge. Crank. Booze. God knows what else." She swiped at a tear that she didn't want him to see and looked away, ashamed. "He was fucked up, high on something. He could tell that...there'd been a man in the house."

He'd left his crushed out smokes on a plate beside her bed. Shit. "What happened?" he asked quietly.

She shook her head and conjured up a smile. "Just...I don't wanna go home, okay?"

He frowned and felt the tension go out of his face. He sighed and scrubbed a hand down his chin. He hadn't counted on this. "Alright...just, you can't stay out here in the open."

Her smile widened. "Really?"

"Yeah, come on," he grumbled. "You're gonna be the goddamned death of me, you know that?"

**Gemma**

Abel had finally quieted down for his afternoon nap and Gemma had pulled her sandwich out of the fridge. She contemplated the layers of turkey, ham and lettuce, secretly wondered if maybe heart disease would he worth the taste of a burger, and startled at the sudden knock on the office door.

"Don't wake the baby," she warned without looking to see who it was.

"Sorry, mother," Tig said.

She snapped her head up at her husband's bodyguard's tell-tale voice. He held onto the door knob with one hand, the door jamb with the other, and looked a bit...sheepish?

"Whats up?" she asked.

"I hate to bother you, Gem, I know youre busy with the baby and all -,"

"Spit it out, Tigger."

"Yeah, um, I was wondering if -,"

"Hi." A girl's head popped into view over his arm and he rolled his eyes.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered. "Gem, Holly. Holly, Gemma."

Gemma felt her brows scale her forehead. "She your long lost kid or something?"

The girl wrinkled her nose. "God I hope not, that would just be wrong."

"Do you think she could hang out in here for a while, just til I get off?" Tig's voice was almost pleading.

Gemma took inventory of the parts of the girl she could see; young face, silky hair, green eyes that had enough spark in them to strike a match. This must be the bartender.

"Sure..." she said slowly, the wheels already turning. "But only for a little while since I've got the baby."

"Thanks," Tig sighed. He fired the girl a warning look on the way out and she smirked at him.

"Have a seat," Gemma motioned to one of the chairs across from the desk.

The girl sat and looked oddly comfortable. Maybe because she had cleavage to rival Gemma's. Or maybe because the queen bee wasnt so scary if you'd been riding the killer for a week or two.

"So, Holly, where'd you meet our boy?"

**Tig**

"Well, I see where you've been all this time," Bobby chuckled and nudged him in the arm.

Tig groaned and flicked another glance across the room where Holly sat, completely at home, talking to Tara of all people. "Not what it looks like, man."

"Really? Cuz it looks like you brought a _date_."

Tig glanced sideways and found Bobby grinning beside him, waggling his eyebrows. He groaned again and let his forehead slump down onto the bar.

**Tara**

Tara did another quick scan of the clubhouse. Everyone was there, _everyone_. Even Opie who looked like a stone gargoyle these days. She tried again, unsuccessfully, to find a male counterpart for the twenty-something girl sitting with her on the beat-up plaid sofa. She'd said her name was Holly, and she was nice enough, if not a little too proud of her womanly physique. She didn't, however, have that jaded, "whatever" air about her like some of the other hang-arounds.

"Who did you say you were here with?" Tara asked, squinting to better assess the girl's reaction.

"Tig," Holly said. Like it was no big deal. Like someone had asked her what color the sky was and she'd said blue.

"Huh." Tara cast a look over to the curly-headed, blue eyed man who'd always struck a chord of fear in her. He was looking at them, at Holly rather, and she shifted her gaze quickly, not wanting to be spotted. "So, you aren't...sleeping with any of these other guys?"

"Oh, God no," Holly made a face. "This chick don't put out for just any old bastard." She coughed a laugh. "Though I'm sure he'd like you to believe that."

"Uh-huh. Um, Holly, right?"

"Yeah."

"Holly, how much do you know about the club?"

She shrugged. "Not a lot. I mean, my old man used to talk about them years ago, said the Sons were a real bunch of assholes. But, so is he, so, no room to talk there."

"Tig hasn't given you any details?"

"No. He's very private about it. But, from what I gather, miss Gemma thinks she's some hot shit."

Tara tried to swallow her laugh and it turned into a snort. "You could say that."

Holly leaned closer and lowered her voice. "What's it like being an old lady?"

Tara frowned automatically. "I wouldn't know...I mean...I don't know."

"But I thought you and that blond guy..."

"Lord. I don't know what to think anymore. But, in case you're wondering, it's not as glamorous as you might think."

"I'm not after glamour."

Tara had a sinking suspicion she knew where this was headed. She sighed. "Holly, these guys...SAMCRO...it isn't just a hobby for them. It's who they are, what they are. Sometimes..." she watched the light flicker in the other girl's green eyes and wondered if she'd ever looked like that. Hopeful. "Sometimes it makes them do things they regret."

"You think I'm one of those regrets." It wasn't a question, but a statement of fact, like maybe she'd already thought the same thing.

"Just...be careful. There's lots of wounds that go along with that cut. Some of them are still bleeding."

"And blood stains things," Holly said.

"Yeah."

Tara watched the girl look over at the bar, knew she was looking at Tig, and felt instantly sorry for her. His were stains that could never be washed away, and Holly would figure that out eventually. Tara just hoped she was still alive when she did.


	7. Chapter 7

AN: Oh my God...two days until season 2!!! I don't think I've ever been so excited for a show premiere. Needless to say, I won't have this story finished by then, so I'm sure Sutter will blow my take on things to smithereens, but hey, I'm having fun. This chapter is a bit longer than the others, so please enjoy.

**Clay**

"I didn't recognize you without the baby, grandma."

Gemma narrowed her eyes at him over the edge of the invoice she was scrutinizing. "You're a laugh a minute," she grumbled with a small smile.

Clay stepped into the narrow office and surveyed the room, finding the crib empty. "Where's Abel?"

"Luann's been begging me to babysit."

"So...the kid's in a porno?"

"Oh, Jesus," she rolled her eyes. "She didn't have to go into the studio today. What kinda grandmother do you think I am?"

He held up his hands defensively. "I'm kiddin', baby. You're the best." He cast a look over his shoulder through the open door. "If you see the guys, tell 'em church starts in an hour. We got a lot of shit to discuss before Chibs heads out this afternoon."

"'Kay." She frowned, set the invoice down, and motioned out towards the parking lot with a manicured, ringed hand. "You see that Camaro out there?"

"Yeah."

"That's the bartender."

"Who?"

She sighed. "Tig's bartender. You know, that little tart who you said was 'just pussy'? She showed up yesterday afternoon, been here all night."

"Maybe she's been wanting to trade up for a career as a crow eater. Huh?"

"This isn't funny," she widened her eyes to that look he knew to mean trouble. "That girl's gonna be a distraction for him. She'll fill his head so full of shit...he'll start thinking outside the club. I already got the doctor to worry about, we don't need another goddamned Yoko Ono around here."

He sighed. She was right. She was always right. Now came the part he hated; testing the loyalty of a brother.

**Holly**

The sun managed to penetrate the layers of horizontal blinds and dark drapes. The beams of light weren't strong, just shadows, echoes of the brightness the California morning had brought.

She stretched and kicked her bare legs sleepily through the dark sheets on Tig's bed. She idly wondered what the thread count was. She didn't figure him one for unnecessary luxuries, but she could swear these were silk. He was a freak though. It made sense in a way.

She rolled over and realized that she was alone in the dorm room down the back hall of the clubhouse. She didn't know why she'd expected him to have a place of his own, but this was oddly comforting. In here there was no bar, no drunken customers, no father with a tire iron in his raised hand.

Tig hadn't asked about the fresh bruises on her back, on her legs. The slightest pressure of his tongue on the blackened, damaged flesh had sent shivers through her body and she'd bit her tongue to keep from crying. She did not have his sympathy, and she didn't want it. She wanted, needed to feel alive. That was enoughfor now.

She buried her face in the pillow and sighed. She didn't ever want to go home. She would stay here until he forced her out.

**Jax**

Jax exhaled and his smoke swirled up beneath the lights to join the ever growing cloud. He shot a quick glance in Opie's direction, something he'd made a habit of, and the rage within him was spurred by the morose look on his brother's face. He didn't think Ope would ever be the same.

"Cameron's ship gets in at five," Clay said beside him. "And apparently, he's bringing the guns in some other way. No more oil barrels after the feds figured it out."

"We'll need to be quick," Chibs said. "In and out."

"Yeah," Clay agreed. "Juice, you go with him."

"Got it."

"We got a buyer yet?" Jax asked. He had this overwhelming sense of dj vu; a garage full of guns and nowhere to unload them. Another catalyst for the rage.

"I set a meeting with Alvarez, Mexicans want the whole shipment."

"When?"

"Tomorrow night," Clay took a deep drag on his cigar and released it slowly. "We're meeting at some dive bar in Lodi; neutral territory."

"W-why Lodi?" Tig spoke up and Jax felt his eyes snap across the table toward the Sgt at Arms. The other man was frowning, his big, hawkish nose accentuating the expression. His blue eyes glittered and Jax had a suspicion it wasn't because of the mass amounts of cigarette smoke circulating through the room.

Clay looked a bit taken aback. "Like I said, neutral territory. There's this hole in the wall joint called the Black Sheep. Nice and private."

Jax glanced at Tig again and was startled by his reaction. The other man put a hand on the table and leaned back, putting as much distance between himself and Clay as was possible without standing. His eyes narrowed. "Naw. Trust me, you don't wanna go there -,"

"What? You got a problem with the way I do business?" Clay asked.

The room became alarmingly silent. Chibs pushed his shades up into his hair. Jax shot him a questioning look but he just shook his head.

He turned sideways and arched his brows at Bobby. The older man looked just as befuddled.

"Anybody else got something to say about the meeting?" Clay challenged.

"No"s were murmured all around. Tig put his elbows on the table and slumped forward until his forehead rested on a raised fist. Jax didnt know what had triggered his reaction, but anything that made Tig squirm was fine by him. He deserved a little torture before he met his maker.

"What about the Niners?" Opied asked, drawing all eyes.

"What about 'em?" Clay asked, eyes narrowing.

Jax was again struck by the hollow look on his friend's face and the way his eyes burned in spite of it. "Clay," there were countless layers of tension in Opie's voice. "I've been waiting, been sitting at this table for two weeks because I was sure you would go after Laroy and his crew when the time was right."

"Look, Ope -,"

"He _killed _my wife!"

"Opie -," Jax tried, feeling his heart compress at the sight of the other man's visible anger.

"No," Opie stood up, wagging his head back and forth like they were all stupid. "Someone's gonna pay for what happened to Donna. If the club can't make it happen, then I will." He stormed out, slamming the double doors behind him.

Piney struggled to his feet and Jax leapt up. "Piney, I'll go after him. Don't worry about it."

"Get him back here," Clay grumbled. "We don't need anyone else going off half-cocked."

Jax paused halfway around the head of the table. The rage flared, blurred his vision, and he leaned down between Clay and Tig, putting a hand on the corner of the table. "_No one _would be going _anywhere _if you'd believed Ope when he told you he wasn't a rat," he hissed, low enough so that only the two of them could hear.

Tig was on his feet in an instant, his chair flung backward against the wall. "You wanna say that louder, you little asshole?"

"Don't push me," Jax straightened so they were toe to toe, face to face. He could see his own reflection in the other man's eyes. "I'll kill you," he said quietly.

Tig broke into a slow smile. A wicked, feral expression like that of a wolf. "Why don't you go ahead? I'm ready for that."

"Hey!" Clay shoved Jax roughly aside. Chibs stood and put a hand on Tig's shoulder.

"I've had enough of this bullshit," Clay growled. "You two wanna slaughter each other, you do it in the ring! Otherwise, everybody put a lid on their shit and calm the fuck down!"

Jax looked at his President and was disgusted. He shoved away from him and headed for the door.

"Where are you going?"

He didn't answer. He slammed the doors and scanned the rest of the clubhouse for Opie. He found the little brunette from the day before instead.

She was standing at the edge of the bar, stirring sugar into her coffee, wearing one of Tig's dark shirts that hung well past her knees. She startled when he came in.

"I-Im sorry, I just wanted some coffee..." she stammered, eyes going wide.

He sighed. He may have wanted Tig's head on a platter, but he couldn't take his anger out on the girl. She was innocent. "It's fine. Holly, right?"

She nodded.

"Did you see Opie come through here?"

"Who?"

"Tall guy with the beard."

She nodded. "He left. I heard a bike start up."

He sighed again. Deeper this time. "Thanks."

She was still looking at him, he could feel her eyes sweeping up and down his frame. "You want some coffee?" she asked.

"No thanks. I need to get going."

"Can I ask you something?" she stopped him with a small hand at his elbow. When he looked at her, really took inventory of the little fires burning behind her green eyes, took note of the tension lines around her perfectly shaped lips, he was struck by the fact that this girl wasn't your average bar slut. This girl was interactive, alive inside. She reminded him of Tara in a way. And the knowledge that she was willingly sleeping with Tig clashed with the entire image.

"You and Tig don't get along, do you?" she asked.

He wanted to shake her off, but couldn't. She had this magnetizing effect, like if you looked at her long enough those fires of hers might swallow you whole. "No," he said quietly. "We don't."

She frowned. "He has a lot of sadness in him, Jax. He's not the brute you think he is."

His grin was anything but amused. "You need to be careful," he told her, serious. "I gotta go."

She released his arm and turned back to her coffee. He regarded her one last time before he headed out. He needed to speed up his assassination plot before Holly got in so deep that Tig's death broke her heart.

***

Jax let a sigh of relief hiss through his teeth when he found both the truck and bike parked in front of Opie's house. He slanted his Dyna behind the truck, blocking the exit, and dismounted in a hurry, barely managing to dangle his helmet off one of the grips.

"Ope!" he called.

"In here," the response came from the garage.

Opie was stuffing things in a duffel bag; nine mil, extra clip, plastic explosive. Jax put a hand on the bundle of fuses that his friend was reaching for, forcing the other man's eyes up to meet his own.

"Don't say it," Opie said tightly.

Jax sighed. "Say what?"

"That I'm taking things into my own hands, not thinking about my kids -,"

"Ope, the Niners didn't kill Donna."

"Bullshit. They saw my truck at the drop-,"

"Ope," Jax was more forceful this time. "I talked to Laroy. He swore to me, man, that he didn't have anything to do with the shooting."

Opie's face twitched.

"There's something you need to know," Jax said.

**Tig**

She'd stayed at the clubhouse all day. She hadn't even bothered to get fully dressed; she'd just slid her jeans on under one of his shirts. He didn't want her there. Didn't want to deal with her.

"What's wrong?" she asked as she drew up to the side of the bed. She touched his arm and he pulled away. Her fingers were warm and soft and he couldn't take it. "Tig -,"

"Don't," he snapped. "Just go away. You shouldn't be here."

She didn't leave. She lay down beside him and pressed every inch of her body against him, molding against his side. He could see her from the corner of his eye, propped up on one elbow, studying his face. He felt her fingers brush through his hair and frowned. He'd always hated his impossibly curly hair and he didn't want her to touch it.

"Why the fuck won't you go away?"

"Why do you want me to?" she asked quietly. "How can you touch me like you do and then shove me away?"

_Because all I know how to do is hurt things._

_Because there isn't a tender bone in my body._

_Because it's for your own good..._

"Why do you care?" he muttered, disgusted. "You could get anyone to fuck you, why do you want to hang around here and bother me?"

She was quiet for a minute and he hoped that maybe he'd finally managed to drive her away. "Because," she said at last, and he groaned. "You're tough enough, strong enough, mean enough to keep me safe."

He sat up, suddenly enraged. "Safe?" She was looking at him with a mix of concern and confusion and it only fanned his anger. He climbed off his bed and started pacing the length of the little room, feeling caged. His breaths came in quick bursts. The walls seemed to close in around him. This was what being claustrophobic felt like.

"Are you fucking stupid?" he asked her, incredulous. "You think _I _can keep you _safe_? Do you have any idea who I am?"

"Yes, you -,"

"No," he spun, leaning down in her face and cutting her off. "You don't have a fucking clue. Do you know why they call me killer? Do you know what I've done to people? What I've done to women?"

Her pretty little jaw went rigid and she met his stare unflinching. "Everybody makes mistakes, Tig. Everybody has bad shit happen to them, you aren't special that way. Don't flatter yourself."

"Mistakes?" he heard his own laughter and didn't recognize it. "Are you shitting me?"

She scowled at him. "You can pretend and you can act like you don't give a shit, but you can't fool me." She opened her hand and shoved him roughly in the chest. "There _is _a heart in that refrigerator somewhere. I can feel it beating when you're on top of me."

He held her gaze until the fire in her green eyes was too intense to look at. He sighed and felt all the fight drain out of him. He sat down heavily beside her and stared blankly across the room at the painted reaper on the wall. He'd given up a lot for that skeleton and his AK scythe. His time, his money, his family, his free will, his soul...

He idly wondered if there ever came a point when it wasn't worth it anymore. When did brotherhood become so skewed that it was something diseased? When did loyalty and paranoia become one and the same?

"What happened?" she asked quietly. The back of her hand caressed his cheek. "What made you so angry?"

He was halfway through the tale before he realized that he'd said the words out loud, and then it was too late to stop. He told her about Opie and ATF, about how he and Clay had believed him to be the rat. He told her about the hit on Opie, how he hadn't been able to pull the trigger at the warehouse. And he told her about pulling up behind the truck and pouring bullets through the back window. He told her about the slick stripe of blood down the side of Donna's face. About watching Opie come undone in the middle of the street while Jax and Chibs held him. About hating himself so much he wished he were dead. About letting Jax beat the shit out of him in the secret hope that he might smash his nose up into his skull for justice's sake.

She sat, silent and patient until he finished. Then she slid into his lap and started undoing the buttons on her borrowed shirt.

"What are you doing?" he reached to stop her. "Didn't you hear -,"

"Let me do this," she whispered. "Let me help you."

She tried to pull her wrist away but he held tight. "Promise me something?"

She nodded.

"Don't go to work tomorrow night."

"But-,"

"Just...don't." He let go of her.

"Okay." She kissed him and her perfect lips tasted like cotton candy. It helped. A little.

**Jax**

"How're you gonna do it?" Opie asked, amazingly calm at the prospect.

"He's been visiting that girl," Jax said on an exhale of smoke. "I'd have to follow him one night, try to make it look like a mugging."

"Dont you mean 'we'?"

Jax regarded his brother with a sideways look. "Trust me, man. You don't want this kill hanging over your head."

"Oh, so I suppose it was _your _wife who got gunned down."

"Ope-,"

"You do it with me, or not at all."

Jax sighed. "A'ight, man."


	8. Chapter 8

AN: I don't know about you guys, but the premiere last night had me shaking by the end. The scene with Gemma, that "horrifying event" as predicted on Sutter's blog, was rough. Maybe because I'm a chick and I have a harder time swallowing that kind of violence. But, because of that, I'm taking a time-out with all the dark, angst-ridden stuff for this chapter. This is just fluff. Plot will return next chapter.

As always, thank you bunches for the sweet reviews. They make my day.

**Chibs**

"Easy through here, Juicy-boy," Chibs cautioned as the kid piloted one of Unser's trucks between the aisles of shipping containers. "The last thing we need is the fucking port authority coming down on us for sideswiping one of these things."

"I know what I'm doin'," Juice insisted.

"Aye. Famous last words."

The November sun had set quickly and it was eerily dark along the five mile stretch of port property. A blueprint and a pair of bolt cutters had gotten them in, but the big diesel cargo truck stood to land them behind bars for the evening. Juice rolled along slowly, the tires hissing through the maze of puddles. The scent of brine-washed concrete came through the open windows in a thick, palpable cloud.

The sudden flare of a flashlight erupted directly ahead and Juice slammed on the brakes.

"Oh Christ..." Chibs muttered.

"C'mon then," the tight, nasal sound of an Irish tenor came from in front of the truck. Cameron.

"Fucking Irishman," Chibs said. "Scaring the shit out of people. Pull up, kid." He opened the door and hopped down the moment the truck was in park, shrugging further into the hood on his sweatshirt.

Cameron Hayes was somewhere at the tail end of his forties, slim and balding. He extended a hand and a not quite smile. "Scotsman."

"How's the arse?" Chibs asked, accepting the handshake.

Cameron smiled ruefully. "I can sit on it these days." His eyes widened, the whites glittering in the dark when he saw Juice come around the front of the truck. "You brought the one with the finger?"

Juice held up both hands defensively. "Trust me, man; I don't wanna be anywhere near your ass."

"That's not what you told me on the way up here," Chibs protested, not able to contain his laughter at the look on the younger man's face. "I'm just fuckin' around," he assured, slinging an arm around him and squeezing until something in his shoulder popped.

"We better hurry this up, lads," Cameron said. "The guns are getting restless."

Chibs paused, hand raised to smack Juice playfully across the top of his shaved head. "The _guns _are getting _restless_?"

Cameron quirked his brows and stepped around to the end of the shipping container and it was then that Chibs realized that this particular container had slits in the side.

"What's that smell?" Juice asked.

Chibs inhaled and frowned. He had smelled that before, back in the day, back when he'd been shoving his way between the legs of the adults at the Glasgow slum markets. It was this tangy, distinct odor that was almost...

A distressed bleating sound issued from the container

...goatlike.

"Oh, you've gotta be shitting me."

"What?" Juice was still clueless. "What's that noise?"

"That, lads," Cameron opened the hatch with a squeal of metal on metal. "Is your latest shipment."

Inside, milling about, were a half a dozen short-haired, domesticated goats. The stench doubled once the door was open.

"Holy shit!" Juice covered his mouth and noise with his sleeve. "The guns...they're not..._in _the goats, are they?"

"In the straw underneath," Cameron explained. He reached a hand into the mess of bedding and came back out with an AK-47 barrel.

Chibs sighed. "Well, this'll be fun."

Juice looked like he might gag.

**Day of the Mayan meeting. 9:12 a.m.**

**Gemma**

There was a soft, but persistent rap on the closed office door. "Come in," Gemma called. She frowned and tried again to fit the bottle's nipple into Abel's mouth. The baby took a tiny slurp, then turned his head away and let all the formula dribble down his chin. "Jesus Christ, kid," she muttered.

"Ooooh, I didn't know you had a baby," a female voice said.

Gemma looked up to find Tig's little bartender in the doorway. The girl was leaning down, hands on her knees, staring with wide-eyed wonder at the baby.

"Oh, it's you," Gemma said, unable to recall the girl's name. She wasn't too concerned with learning anything about the girl who stood to make her husband less safe.

"Holly," she said as if she knew Gemma had forgotten. She plunked down into a chair and scooted it closer, smiling widely at Abel.

"You like kids?"

She shrugged. "I love kids," she looked up and made a face. "Doesn't mean I want any of my own."

Gemma nodded. "I get that. They're a lot of work, especially for a girl without a man."

Holly stiffened, her eyes became a little hooded. A nerve had been struck. "Yeah."

Satisfied, Gemma tried again to feed the baby. The pain in the ass doctor had said he still needed to pick up some weight. "He's my grandson," she clarified. "Abel."

"That's a beautiful name."

Gemma looked up and really took inventory of the girl, of the wistful look on her face. She had a shadow of a hickey on her neck, a gift from Tig, and a lump just along her hairline that wasn't the result of kinky sex. Someone had roughed this girl up, and probably not for the first time. "What are you doing here today?" she asked softly.

"I came to see Tig but he's not here. I thought I'd wait," she glanced up ", if that's okay."

Gemma frowned. "I gotta ask, kid. What's with you and him? What are you looking to accomplish there?"

"I..."

"He's a freak and a half you know."

"I know."

"I mean _freak_. That boy's not right in the head."

Holly frowned. "I figured that out in the first five minutes. I'm not an idiot, you know."

Gemma arched her brows, surprised. "Never said you were."

"And I know what you're doing."

"Really?"

"I get that this is an exclusive club, and I get that you're the queen bee. But I'm not trying to horn my way in. I have no interest in turning SAMCRO upside down."

Gemma hadn't expected that. She thought the girl was here to challenge, throw down the gauntlet.

"I'll wait outside," Holly said with a sigh. She let herself out and closed the door behind her.

Gemma looked down at Abel. "That's what they all say," she sighed. "It's a shame though. I think I could learn to like that one."

**12:35 p.m.**

**Tig**

He could tell before he got his shades off that she was sitting on the ground, leaning back against the Coke machine with her knees pulled up to her chest. She was flipping through a magazine but stood at the sound of their arrival.

"Hey," Clay said beside him, forcing his attention. The President looked suspicious, all-knowing. "Tell Jax to be ready at five."

"Okay," Tig toed out his kickstand and climbed off his bike, dangling his helmet off the handlebars. He felt low, well, lower than usual, but was aware that he was slowly losing willpower when it came to the bartender. She waited for him, hands in her back pockets, and broke into a smile as he drew up to her.

"Hey, babe," she said.

He froze. "Babe?"

She frowned. "No nicknames?"

"Definitely not," he muttered. He shot a glance over his shoulder and saw his boss watching him. "Come on," he snagged her elbow and pulled her along with him toward the garage bays. "When are you gonna learn to lay low, huh?"

She wrestled her arm away. "Fine. I'll go home."

"Naw, you know I don't mean it." He glanced over and saw her hiding a smile behind her hand. "Wait..."

"You're very predictable," she said.

He sighed. "Jesus Christ. You remember what I said? ABout not going to work?"

She nodded. "I don't know why you're so freaked, I've worked there for four years. The only time anyone gave me any real trouble -,"

"Don't worry about the 'why'," he cut her off, not wanting to be reminded that he had a killed a man to protect her that first night. "Just don't go, damnit."

"So I'll stay here with you."

"No." He stopped and reached for her arm again, trying to grab her attention. "You CAN NOT go to the bar tonight. I thought we already went over this."

She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and glanced out across the parking lot. "Fine," she didn't sound convinced. "I'll just...stay home."

"I'm not kidding, Hol."

The Prospect walked past, wheeling a tire along on its side, and Tig stepped back, putting another foot between them. She turned back to him, eyes hard. "Yeah. I'll stay home. I'd hate to subject you to anymore sex and sympathy."

"Holly..."

She threw up a hand over her shoulder as she walked out toward her car. "Don't worry about it. I'll catcha later, Tigger."


	9. Chapter 9

AN: I'm glad everyone's liking the story, but I have a question. Does anyone like Holly's character enough to want her around for another story? I'm definitely writing my Chibs pre-series fic after this, but I'm starting to rethink my original plan for Holly. I have never figured Tig as a guy who wanted or needed an old lady, and I don't want to damage his character's integrity by doing something that's too off the map, but I kinda like where this is going. So, should I keep Holly for a possible women of SAMCRO tale? Or continue as planned?

Also, I saw yesterday that the show's blog shortens Opie's name as "Op", but I like to keep the "e". More phonetically correct that way.

**Jax**

He held the smoke in his lungs until he thought they might burst, then released it slowly through his nostrils. He watched Holly stomp her way back to her Camaro, the heels of her cowboy boots rapping the pavement ferociously. Tig watched her go, both hands in his hair, shaking his head.

Jax studied the other man and didn't miss the tension across his shoulders. He had always figured the killer was unshakeable, but this girl had some sort of effect. It wasn't true affection, Tig wasnt capable of that, but there was something there. Something that had caused him to disagree with Clay.

He heard the rustle of cotton and denim and turned to see Opie sinking down beside him. "Knife," he said.

"Huh?"

Opie nodded toward Tig. "I wanna use a knife, Jax. He'll go too quick if I shoot him. He won't suffer enough."

Jax frowned. "It's not about suffering, man. This only works if we do it quick."

"He deserves to suffer," Opie's voice was nearly a growl. "He -,"

"Hey, I told you, Ope, this is only about settling the score. Dead is dead no matter how you get there. If you can't settle down, you can't get things right in your head, I'll do it all by myself."

Opie frowned. "I -,"

"Jax, Clay says be ready at five."

Neither of them had noticed Tig walk up and Jax nearly choked on his cigarette. The Sgt at Arms put one boot on the bench and looked between the two of them, suspicious.

"A'ight, I'll be ready," Jax said. He shot the other man a look that plainly told him to fuck off.

Tig waited, lingering just beyond the point of comfortable silence, then shoved away.

"Dead is dead," Jax repeated. "Don't forget that, Ope."

"Tomorrow?"

"Yep. After the fight."

**Holly**

She slowed her Camaro to a crawl along the sidewalk, the thunder from the tailpipes drowning out the radio. There was a rusted-out Ford pick-up in the driveway and a shudder raced like demon fingers up her spine.

She braked to a halt and peered across the car, ducking to see more clearly through the passenger window. The yard hadn't been mown in the better part of the week and the weeds were even taller. She recalled that she'd left her bed unmade, and knew the tangled sheets smelled of sex.

A shadow shifted behind the drapes in a front window and she started to shake. Dad was home. She gunned the car forward, nearly colliding with a truck that was trying to go around her. She winced and waved apologetically at the other driver.

She waited for traffic to slow and shot one last look back toward the house as she pulled away. He'd come to the front door and his face was murderous. He had never liked for her to have boyfriends; it prevented him from having her to himself at night.

She left rubber and smoke behind on the pavement as she peeled out. Her pulse pounded in her ears, her fingers quivered so badly she thought she might have to pull over. But she couldn't, she had to keep driving.

She checked her reflection in the rearview mirror at the first red light. She had paled considerably in the past five minutes. She traced a finger over the knot at the edge of her forehead, the one her father had put there the last time she'd seen him. Tig _had _asked about that one, finally. One bruise too many she supposed. She didn't care what he said, how evil he claimed to be, he wasn't her father and that made him a saint in her eyes.

The light changed and she turned her attention back to the road, trying to regulate her breathing. He'd told her not to go to work, but home was out of the question at this point.

She took the next left, the one that would take her to the bar.

**Jax**

"Mayans aren't here yet," Jax observed, scanning the gravel lot for the Mexican bikers.

Clay snorted. "I told 'em we were meeting at seven, give us time to check for any outside men." He nodded to Tig. "Check the perimeter then meet us inside."

"'Kay," Tig went around the side of the building, hand already finding the nine mil tucked against the small of his back.

Jax watched him go and frowned. He was having trouble understanding the sudden animosity between the President and his favored bodyguard. "Clay, what's going on here?" he fixed the older man with a pointed look.

Clay shrugged. "Hopefully, a new gun deal and not another shoot-out."

He headed for the door of the bar and Jax sighed. "That's not what I mean. What's up with you and him, Clay? What was that at the meeting yesterday?"

Clay paused, hand poised above the door handle. He frowned in a disgusted sort of way. "Since when did you become everyones goddamned shrink? You wanna play Doctor Phil, you can go home. Otherwise, you get your head on straight and man up. You hear?"

"Yeah," Jax felt his teeth clench. "I hear."

He followed his boss into the Black Sheep, taking quick inventory of the worn wood and wobbly furniture of the place. The walls were covered with old concert posters for Jethro Tull and Lynyrd Skynyrd, a few old metal beer signs with bullet nicks in them. Clay slid into a chair at a corner table that had a good view of the entrance and the bar. Jax settled beside him, doing one more sweep of the little building to ensure there weren't any Mayans hiding behind support columns.

It was then, as his eyes passed over the bar that ran the length of the back wall, that he recognized the sleek dark hair and pixie features of Holly Jessup. She was filling a mug from the Michelob tap and trying to look at them casually. Her eyes widened when she realized that she'd been spotted and the beer overran the mug and went dribbling down her arm.

"What the hell..."Jax muttered. "Clay -,"

Tig joined them, coming to a screeching halt when he spotted Holly. Jax didn't miss the way the other man's jaw clenched, or how both his hands curled into white-knuckled fists. Holly was talking to another customer, obviously trying to ignore them.

"There a problem?" Clay asked.

"No," Tig seemed to shake himself loose and took the empty chair on the other side of the President. His eyes never left the bar though.

Suddenly, it all made sense to Jax. This meeting had nothing to do with neutral territory and everything to do with the girl. Clay was testing his man, making sure his loyalty didn't waver for a bitch. So far, Tig was failing that test miserably.

"Clay, this is wrong-," Jax tried again.

"Alvarez," Clay said nodding toward the door. The Mayan President had just walked in, two of his own guys in tow. They had, unlike any of them, worn their cuts. If things went south, any blame would be put on the Mayans since there was no obvious evidence that any of the Sons had been there.

Alvarez took the seat directly across from Clay, his guys flanked him. An uncomfortable silence settled across the table, one in which Jax took inventory of the guy across from him and calculated the amount of force necessary to render him unconscious should the shit hit the fan.

"I didn't think you'd actually come," Alvarez said at last in his heavily accented English.

Clay shrugged. Casual. Confident. "Now when have we ever broken a promise, huh?"

A waitress, a tired looking blond in her late thirties, came to the table, cracking a stick of gum loudly. "Get you boys something?"

"Pitcher of Bud," Jax said, thankful when she retreated quickly.

Alvarez frowned. "My boys and me, we usually like to start a meeting with something a little stronger."

"Yeah?" Jax narrowed his eyes. "Well we don't."

"Let's just get this over with," Clay said. He slid a folded piece of paper across the table. "We picked up the guns last night but need another day or two for assembly. We'll make the money swap then, at the address I just gave you."

"We're not gonna talk about what happened with the Niners?" Alvarez asked.

"What's there to talk about?" Jax said. "They fucked us both over."

"Go check on out beers, VP," Clay said.

Jax looked at him sideways, surprised. "What?"

"Go to the bar and check on the drinks," he said. "Go."

Jax gave him one last disbelieving look before he shoved up from the table. He went to the bar and put his back to it, becoming aware that Alvarez had a third man hidden in the alcove of the door. Clay's insistence made sense and he smoothed his nerves down.

"What's going on?" he heard someone ask behind him and he turned halfway to see Holly. She pretended to wipe the bar down, but was shooting nervous looks toward their table.

"Official MC business," he said with a half-smile. "You work here?"

"Four years," she said.

"So this is where you met Tig?"

"Yeah."

He looked back toward the table and found Tig's relentless blue stare. The Sgt at Arms was barely able to pay attention to the meeting at hand. Clay was not going to be happy about this, not in the least.

"He told me not to come to work today," she said. Her voice sounded tight, like her throat was closing around each breath. "I tried not to come, Jax, I really did, but...my dad..." she trailed off.

"Your old man the one who put that lump on your head?"

She bit her lip and nodded, not willing to meet his gaze.

"What does Tig say?"

She shrugged. "He's been letting me stay with him most nights."

Jax looked back to the table, to the unreadable expression on Tig's face. Killing this bastard just kept getting trickier.

**Tig**

"Fucking wetbacks," Clay muttered as the Mayans bikes fired up outside.

Tig did one last scan of the bar, ensuring that all the Mexicans had indeed gone, then excused himself from the table. He felt Clay and Jax follow him with their eyes and didn't care. Holly was pouring a rum and coke for a fat trucker and laughing at something he said.

"What the hell?" he growled, banging a fist down on top of the bar.

She looked up, but wasn't startled. "Nice to see you too," she mumbled, going to the back wall to replace the Captain Morgan.

"You _told _me you wouldn't come into work tonight, Holly. What the fuck?"

She turned around and her eyes were fierce. "Last time I checked, you haven't promised me anything, so what do I owe you?"

"I'm not kidding -,"

"Well I'm not either," she put her own hand on the bar and met him stare for stare. "You said I couldn't stay at the clubhouse, you won't tell me _why _I couldn't come into work, and I couldn't go home. What the hell was I supposed to do?" She pulled in a deep breath and shook as she released it. "My dad was at the house..." she shook her head. "But I guess you don't give a shit."

Something inside him shifted, something he wasn't really ready for. It was that feeling that took over when Clay told him to look after Gemma, that sense of...responsibility. "What did he do?" he asked, suddenly angry for a different reason. "Did he hit you again?"

"No," she shook her head again, more insistently. "I just...I just..."

Oh shit. She was going to cry. "Naw, naw, cmon. You can come back with me."

She nodded and the eyes she turned up to him were glazed with unshed tears. "I'm sorry, Tig."

He sighed and settled onto the stool. "I'll wait and follow you back to the clubhouse."

**Clay**

"You were right," Clay sighed, massaging the stiffness out of his wrists with equally sore fingers. "The girl's a distraction."

Gemma's silk pajamas swished as she rounded the end of the bed. "I knew it," she said. "What are you gonna do?"

He let his head flop backward and impact the headboard with a soft _thump_. "What do we always do? Take care of things. I'll call Hap tomorrow. He's the only one who'll be able to do it."

"Funny," she snorted. "That's what you usually say about Tig."

"After tomorrow night, he won't have anything to worry about but SAMCRO."


	10. Chapter 10

AN: Awesome! I'm glad you guys seem to be on track with the realistic side of things. I like Holly, but I really think it's important to be true to Sutter's creation. I personally don't think Tig would ever have an emotional, one on one connection with anyone, but I don't think he's a sociopath. I think, as evidenced by the tear in "the Revelator" that he does feel guilty about what happened to Donna. I used Holly to express his desire to not be just a killer, to kind of "make-up" for the fact that he'd ruined the lives of women before. But, even when he sort of does the right thing, he ends up being bad for her. He's like a disease and I wanted him to come to that realization on his own. It'll solidify his bond to the club and to Clay, drive home his lack of worth once and for all.

This is the second to last chapter, just one more to go! I hate to leave you with a cliffhanger, and I truly hope I don't disappoint with this installment. Lemme know!

**Fight Night**

**Clay**

Happy had these deep, obsidian eyes that Clay had always secretly thought to have some sort of Medusa effect; turn your ass to stone if you looked into them the wrong way. Everything about the man- his clothes, boots, his bike - it all spoke of efficiency, a life that knew nothing but endless stretches of empty pavement. He was one hundred percent SAMCRO, all club with no room for anything else. Except, maybe, his ailing mother.

"How's your mom, doing?" Clay asked after the double doors to the chapel clicked shut behind the Tacoma charter president.

"Holdin' on for now," Happy's voice was beyond raspy after a lifetime of smoking. "I went by to see her yesterday."

"Good to hear it," Clay knocked the ash off his cigar and motioned to Tig's usual seat. "I'm glad you could get away, Hap. I have a big favor to ask you."

Happy sat, propped his elbows on the table, and looked almost eager when he spoke. "You said you needed someone to carry out a hit?"

"Yeah."

"You're not gonna have the killer do it?"

Clay sighed. It normally amused him that Happy and Tig referred to each other as "killer", but not today. "He's gotother shit to worry about right now. Plus, I'm afraid for anyone in this charter to get mixed up in any more shit right now."

"I get that," Happy nodded. "Who's the mark?"

Clay fished the computer print-out from his back pocket and handed it over. "It's a girl, Holly Jessup. She stumbled across some information that could be dangerous for the club, threatened to go to the feds...it's a big fucking problem in other words."

Happy's eyes narrowed just a fraction of an inch. "She won't take a pay-off, keep her mouth shut?"

"Naw, we already offered that. This bitch is nothing but trouble for us. We need her taken care of, quickly."

He nodded. "Just tell me when and where."

"Gotta be tonight, we'll all be at the Prospect's match so no one can point any fingers. Her address and driver's license photo are on that print-out. You'll let me know when it's done?"

"Sure thing, boss."

Clay smiled and the expression was nearly painful. "Thanks, Hap. I appreciate you doing this."

**Jax**

"You ready?"

Opie ejected the clip on his Glock, took quick inventory that it was full, then clicked it back into place. "Yeah," he said, sliding the gun into his waistband. He turned away from the kitchen table and Jax didn't miss the tremor that crossed his friend's face as he went to the sofa where Ellie and Kenny were watching TV.

Mary sat between the children, an arm around each of them. She knew, the moment Opie approached, that something dark and secret was going on tonight.

"I'll be home later," Opie said.

She nodded, not wanting or needing to ask any questions.

Jax watched, feeling his heart squeezed, as Opie kissed both kids on the forehead in turn. When he came back to the table, his face was a roadmap of anger, grief, betrayal, longing...it made Jax sick inside.

"Ope, if-,"

"No. We're doing this. For Donna. For the kids."

"And for you," Jax said grimly.

"Yeah. Mostly for me."

"I'll see you later, Mary," Jax called as they headed for the door.

"You boys be careful," she cautioned.

"Always."

**Holly**

The bleachers surrounding the ring were relatively empty, most of the crowd preferring to stand and wave their fists at the action. The somewhat scrawny, strawberry blond kid from the clubhouse was doing better than just holding his own, he was pounding the shit out of his opponent. The Scottish guy, Chibs she remembered, was hanging onto the ropes, screaming unintelligible encouragements to his fighter.

"Hey," she heard the greeting, recognized the voice, but couldn't place it. She turned and saw the young guy with the lightening bolts tattooed on either side of his mohawk slide onto the bleachers beside her. For the life of her, she couldn't remember the kid's name. He was cute in this very charming, little boy sort of way. She always had the urge to pinch his cheek.

"Hey..." she said. Dear God, what was it? OJ? Some sort of drink...Sprite or something?

He chuckled at her perplexed expression. "Juice," he supplied.

"I'm sorry," she felt her cheeks redden. "I'm usually better with names."

He shrugged, unfazed. "So, you like boxing?"

"Not especially. Just something to do, you know?"

He nodded. "You staying at the clubhouse again tonight?"

She gave him a sideways look, wondering where this line of questioning was heading. "Maybe...why?"

He shrugged with face and shoulders. "I had a..." he grinned ",bet going with Half-Sack. You stay another night and I'm two hundred dollars richer."

Holly laughed, surprised at her own reaction.

"I gotta ask," he became more serious. "You're a cool chick, so what the hell are you doing with Tig?"

She sighed. "Honestly, I haven't figured that out yet."

**Jax**

The converted warehouse was crawling with spectators. Half-Sack was in the ring, chipping away at some poor bastard's nose while Chibs egged him on.

"We gotta find Tig and then wait," Jax said to Opie, having to raise his voice over the din. He picked his way through the crowd and came up to the edge of the ring. "Hey!" he called up to Chibs.

The Scot turned reluctantly, not wanting to take his eyes off the action, superstitious that he could somehow help the Prospect win just by watching.

"Where are the others?" Jax asked.

Chibs pointed and Jax turned. Tig and Bobby were on the first tier of the bleachers, Holly and Juice sitting several rows up.

And then Jax spotted a familiar but unexpected face. At the very top of the bleachers, sitting alone and staring down at Juice and the bartender, was Happy. Jax hadn't even known that the Tacoma President was in town, much less that he would be at the fight. And why was he up there alone...

Jax glanced back at Holly, then Happy, and then everything fell into place.

Hap was here on business.

Clay had put a hit on Holly.

"Holy shit," he breathed, scrambling to take hold of this new realization.

"What?" Opie asked.

"Change of plans," Jax said. "Wait here." He left Ope standing, confused, and climbed up into the bleachers. "Juice, get lost," he said sharply.

"But -,"

"Now."

Juice scrambled off, giving Holly an apologetic smile.

"That was extremely rude," Holly said, scowling at him a bit.

He wasn't in the mood for the back and forth. He leaned close enough so their shoulders touched, put his lips inches from her ear, and didn't miss the look that Tig was shooting him. He didn't care. "Holly, listen to me, I'm not trying to frighten you, but you need to get out of here. Fast as you can. You're not safe in Charming."

"What?" she pulled back, giving him a look that suggested he was crazy.

"I'm serious. You need to slip out the back, make sure no one follows you, but you can't stay."

Fear crossed her face. "Jax, you're scaring me..."

"If you don't leave, something bad's gonna happen."

Her eyes darted further down the row of bleachers.

"Tig _will not _protect you from this, Holly. He just won't. Go. Now."

She hesitated.

"Go home, Holly. Please."

She went, slowly, craftily, heading towards the restroom.

Jax sighed.

**Holly**

She was halfway to the bathroom, just squeezing in between two fat drunks who were sloshing beer onto one another, when someone grabbed her arm from behind. She spun, suddenly gripped in panic, until she realized it was Tig.

"Where are you going?"

"Home," she said quickly, trying to pull her arm away. "Let go."

"What's the matter? What did Jax say to you?"

_Tig _will not _protect you from this_

"Nothing..." she wavered, caught between everything she'd come to question in the past couple of weeks and what little logic she had left. "Tig, let go..."

He didn't and this new onslaught of fear manifested itself in frustration. She finally managed to yank her arm free. "Let me go, you don't care anyway!" she almost shouted.

He looked taken aback for a fraction of a second before his face hardened to steel.

"Do you feel something, _anything_, for me, Tig? Anything at all?"

He was silent.

_Tig _will not _protect you from this_

"That's what I thought," she snapped. She plunged ahead through the crowd, wondering why she'd ever even bothered all those nights ago at the bar. Jax's girlfriend had been right; some wounds were too deep and too bloody to patch back together. And she was the only casualty. He'd bled all over her and she didn't know if she could wash it away.

**Jax**

"Tig's gone," Opie sounded near panic.

"I know. I know." Jax sighed. "Come on, let's head out to the van before he gets away."

**Happy**

The mark, the girl, took the turns too quickly in her Camaro, tailpipes ringing and tires squealing. Happy nursed all the speed he could manage out of his borrowed Buick, trying to stay just far enough behind that she didn't notice him.

He followed her all the way to Lodi, to a run-down brick ranch with a yard full of weeds. He parked across the street and watched the girl slip into the house through a side door under the carport. He pulled the hood up on his sweatshirt, checked the clip in his gun, and was surprised to hear the sound of an approaching engine.

**Tig**

He didn't know why he followed her, why he went back to Lodi. She had been scared, the emotion plainly written all over her face. And in that instant, standing beside the ring, her face had changed in his mind's eye and he'd seen Donna. He'd seen her smiling at Opie, and he'd seen her covered in blood.

It was this all-encompassing guilt that drove him to Lodi, that caused him to pull into her driveway. There was an old Ford truck alongside her Camaro and he drew his gun as he went to the door.

**Holly**

She felt the tears burning at the back of her eyes and threw her purse against the kitchen wall. It popped open and everything spilled out. She didn't care. She reached under the sink, pushed apart the bottles of Drain-o and Lysol, and curled her fingers around the bottle of Crown she kept there.

She took a long pull, nearly gagging at the taste, and braced her hands on either side of the sink, staring down the drain. It was a good metaphor for her entire life, she supposed. She'd been circling the drain since the day her mother died. Maybe one day she'd finally slide on through.

The sound of the door startled her. "Tig-," she started.

"Is that his name?"

She spun, breath catching in her throat. It was her father. His face was red, murderous. He was drunk off his ass and his breath reeked of alcohol when he leaned down into her face. "Is that the name of that goddamned biker you've been fucking? Huh?"

"Dad," she backed away, bringing a hand up as if to shield herself. "Please -,"

"Fucking slut!" he roared, backhanding her across the face.

Stars erupted across her field of vision.

**Jax**

They left the van a block down the street and ran quiet and black as wraiths down the sidewalk, avoiding the spotlights of the streetlamps. Jax felt the rage flowing through his veins, more liquid and terrifying than any adrenaline rush. He heard his breath leave his lungs in ragged gasps. Anticipation curled his finger around the trigger of his gun as they drew up to the house.

He signaled with two fingers for Opie to go to the other side of the back door. They stood, flanking the entrance, and shared a look with one another.

Opie's eyes were wide and glittered with something akin to bloodlust. It frightened Jax, but he couldn't deny his own desire for vengeance. They stood, moments from fulfilling what Jax had been plotting for weeks. His heart pounded in his ears louder than a freight train.

What they were about to do, what _he _was about to do, would alter the fabric of SAMCRO forever. The consequences would be vast and immeasurable and he didn't know if the club could even survive it. The death of Alex Trager would not be the end, but the beginning. The explosion that would cause the entire universe to implode.

He had told himself that it was worth it. But now, at the edge of all things logical, he started to wonder if this was one impulse he should ignore, rise above.

"Ope-,"

A gunshot echoed through the house.

Jax acted out of instinct. He shouldered open the back door to the house and swept inside, gun raised. Opie was hot on his heels.

He went through the back hall, past two empty bedrooms, keeping the muzzle of his nine mil just far enough ahead to precede a possible attack.

They stumbled into the kitchen and then he realized the source of the shot. Tig stood over a man Jax didn't recognize, the muzzle of his own gun still trained on his chest. The guy was dead as shit, his breast bone split into a million pieces from the close-range shot. And on the floor, in a bloody, crumpled heap, was Holly.

Jax stowed his gun and dropped to his knees, going to the girl without thinking. She lay on her back, arms spread, legs curled under at an odd angle. There was red everywhere and when Jax felt her throat for a pulse, his hands came away dark and slick with blood. Her breaths were coming in sick-sounding sputters, smacking wetly in the back of her throat. Her eyes fluttered and her back arched, lifting her up off the floor and a hiss escaped her lips.

"Jesus," Jax muttered. "God, somebody call an ambulance." He looked up and Tig and Opie were staring blankly at him. "Call a fucking ambulance!" he yelled. Holly gasped at his feet. "She's gonna bleed out, you asshole!" he said at Tig in particular.

"You should let her go," Tig said softly. "She'll be better off."

Jax glanced at the dead man. This must be the father, the asshole whod been smacking her around. "Call an ambulance," he repeated. He looked at Opie and saw his brother shake his head.

Then Opie raised his gun and aimed it at Tig's temple. "You killed my wife," he whispered. "And I'm gonna kill you."

Holly grasped weakly at Jax's pant leg and he felt the wetness of blood come through the fabric. Tig's face was devoid of all expression. "Ope," he said. "Put the gun down, man."

Opie glanced at him disbelieving. "I won't wait any longer, Jax," his voice shook. "I wont -,"

The rage in Jax slipped away from his just as suddenly as Holly's grasp went slack. "No, Ope. No more killing. No more death."

A clock somewhere in the house chimed the hour. Opie's raised hand shook. Holly's last breaths came in shallow, lifeless huffs. And Jax knew the way things would end. He supposed, underneath all that rage, he'd known all along.


	11. Chapter 11

AN: See you at the end.

**Tara**

Jax was waiting for her just inside the sliding doors of Lodi's West Memorial Hospital. He worried his stubbly beard with one hand and his eyes grew round as saucers when she entered. Then she saw the blood.

"Oh Jesus, baby, are you okay?" she felt her heart rate accelerate as she started patting his chest and stomach through his sweatshirt. So much blood. Too much for him to have even been standing.

"It's Holly's," he explained quickly.

She sighed, relieved. "How bad was the attack?"

He shook his head. "It was _bad_. I don't think she'll make it, but they won't tell me anything since I'm not family."

She nodded. "I'll find something out. Where's..." she scanned the waiting room of the ER.

"I sent him home," Jax said. "I didn't want him there when the coroner came for the body."

He looked so stricken, so tortured. She reached up to scuff her knuckles lightly along his jaw. "I'll be back," she promised. "With news."

He nodded and she approached the desk receptionist, working up some tears. "Excuse me, ma'am?" she tried to sound breathless. "They just brought my sister in and I need to see her."

"What's her name, dear?" the nurse asked.

"Holly. Holly Jessup."

**Jax**

His ass and the backs of his thighs grew numb after nearly an hour in the hard plastic chair. He bounced his legs up and down on the balls of his feet, the change in his pocket rattling. He alternated between watching the muted TV screen, some news program with a perky blond announcer, and trying to rub the tension from between his eyebrows.

He felt immeasurably guilty about everything. He shouldn't, he knew that, but it didn't matter. He was supposed to be smarter than Clay, one step ahead. He'd seen this coming and hadn't been quick enough to do anything about it. He'd been too caught up in the rage, too focused on easing Opie's pain. In truth, he'd only worsened it. Opie never should have known that it was Clay who'd effectively killed Donna. And because no one could even think of putting a bullet in the President's head, things with Tig, and consequently Holly, had reached a point of madness.

Something warm brushed his hand and he looked up to see Tara sliding a Styrofoam cup of coffee into his limp fingers. He took it, thankful, and turned to her. She had a heavy crease across her brow, her mouth turned down at the corners like she had a stomach ache. She sipped her own coffee and laid a hand on his shoulder.

"The damage was..." she took a deep, shuddering breath. "Severe. She was...raped...with a foreign object, something that cut her pretty badly. One of her ribs was broken and it punctured her left lung. She has severe contusions on her face, arms, back and stomach. Whatever he raped her with...he tried to shove it down her throat...oh God-," she put a hand to her mouth and gagged.

"Hey, hey, it's alright," Jax put an arm around her and pulled her tight against his side.

She closed her eyes and took deep, purposeful breaths, struggling to keep her dinner down. "Whoever did this, Jax...God he's a monster! He ought to be dead."

"He is," he rubbed her arm with soothing, circular motions. "She mentioned to several of us that her old man was violent. I just never thought...Jesus."

She seemed to get a grip on her emotions and pushed away. "You guys barely made it in time."

He shook his head, frowning. "It was Tig. He must have...interrupted...he shot her dad."

"The doctors aren't optimistic, Jax. They say she most likely won't make it through surgery."

He nodded and pulled her to him again. Another casualty of SAMCRO.

**Tig**

A point of inebriation was reached when the blow job was no longer a novelty and became an obligation to yourself. The blond sweetbutt finished him off and then crawled back up the length of the bed, licking her lips and laughing at what she believed to be her own skill. He took another pull on the Jack and then roughly shoved her sideways off the bed.

She landed with a _thump _and a moan of protest.

"Get the fuck outta here," he said tiredly, flopping back onto the mattress.

"But, Tigger -," she whined.

"I said get out!" he flung the bottle of whiskey and it exploded against the wall above her head, showering broken glass and amber liquid over everything.

She squealed and scrambled out of the room on her hands and knees, slamming the door behind her.

He was glad when she was gone, when it got quiet again. In the silence, he could let the voices roll over him in waves.

_We don't kill women._

_I depend on you so much for that shit, sometimes I forget the weight of it._

_You killed my wife and now I'm gonna kill you._

_We don't kill women._

_Do you feel something, _anything _for me, Tig? Anything at all?_

_...the weight of it_

_We don't kill women._

He had quickly and efficiently ruined the lives of every woman around him. It had started with Andrea, his daughters, and now, twenty years later, another young girl remained shattered in his wake. He had known from the first that Holly was nothing but a distraction from the relentless stares of dead Donna, the ones he saw every time he closed his eyes. A little cold comfort.

And it didn't matter that he'd killed that construction worker in front of the bar that night. Didn't matter that he'd let her stay at the clubhouse, followed her home at night, tried to keep her away from the Mayan meeting. Holly was dead because of him. Because her father had found the cigarettes on the nightstand and the bite marks on her neck and had raped and beaten her for betraying him.

He was like a disease, like the goddamned bubonic plague leaving death and destruction behind.

He wished Opie had pulled the trigger.

"I'm sorry," he said to no one in particular.

**Gemma**

There was a sadness to Clay when he came home that night.

"Everything okay, baby?" she shifted the covers, ready to climb out of bed and go to him if need be.

He sighed and sat down on the edge of the bed, his back to her. "It's done. It wasn't by us, but it happened," he said heavily.

"How's Tig?"

"How do you think he is?"

She sighed too. "It's not like this is the first time."

"But is it the last? I don't know if I can do this again."

She rose and went to him, sinking down beside him and rubbing his arm soothingly. "You know it has to be this way, baby. The President _can not_ go without protection. Unwavering Loyalty."

"I know. I know."

She rested her temple against his shoulder. "How did it happen?"

"Her old man. Tig showed up after...killed him, but it wasn't soon enough. He has no idea Hap was there. It looks like a freak accident."

"Good. This is the end of the bullshit...I can feel it."

He made a sound of disagreement in the back of his throat. "Yeah. I'm sure."

**Jax**

Jax was not prepared for the mess that greeted him at the clubhouse. He shouldered open the door and froze when he spotted the carnage of broken liquor bottles, overturned furniture, and scraps of what had once been lacey lingerie.

"What the hell...?"

"Pull up a stool, Jackie-boy," Chibs called softly from the bar. The Scot was propped up on his elbows, nursing a beer and holding a lit cigarette between two fingers. He had his shades on even in the dim interior of the clubhouse. A sullen Opie sat beside him.

Jax took a seat opposite them and cast a look over his shoulder, again shocked at the state of things. "What went on here, Chibs?"

Chibs took a drag on his cigarette and exhaled tiredly. "Tig blew through our after-fight bash. Booze, women, wrecked all of it."

Jax sighed and rubbed a hand down his face, feeling the stiff residue of dried blood.

"How's his girl?"

"Dead," Jax said. "She died on the operating table."

"Good," Opie said, drawing both their stares. He met their gazes, unapologetic. "Now he knows what it feels like." He climbed off his stool and left, boots crunching across the shrapnel of broken glass.

Jax shook his head. "I promised him revenge, but..." he trailed off, not sure what to say.

"Let me explain something," Chibs said. "What happened tonight was a shame, but it ain't a surprise. That man," he jerked a thumb back toward the dorm hall ", he's seen more shit than any of the rest of us would ever care to."

"He's Clays go-to guy," Jax agreed, frowning. "He trusts him with shit he'd never tell me."

"Because you're a leader, Jackie-boy. There's no brainwashing someone like you. Tig, well..." he let it hang.

Jax closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. He was past the point of tired and his eyes actually hurt with the effort of keeping them open.

"There's no such thing as revenge here," Chibs said. "Not within the club, not after what happened. I know it, you know it. Opie needs time, but then he'll know it too."

"It was Clay," Jax forced his eyes open again and tried to guess what the other man was thinking behind his dark lenses. "Clay put the hit on Opie. He didn't pull the trigger, but Clay killed Donna, not Tig."

"Aye. But what are you gonna do about it?"

Jax frowned. "What _can_ I do?"

"Nothing, brother. Not a fucking thing."

**Two Weeks Later**

**Jax**

"Alvarez sends his gratitude," Clay said with a small smile. "And he wants our next shipment too."

"The goats worked so Cameron said he'll be back in another week," Chibs said.

Juice groaned.

Jax knocked the ash off his cigarette and marveled again at the elastic ability of the club. Ope was there, smoking and participating. He'd gone along with Jax and Chibs; Tig was better off stewing in his own personal hell. Death wouldn't be revenge for him, just a relief.

Jax glanced back at his President, his step-father and brother, and forced the rage to be still inside his skull. Clay would meet his own bloody end one of these days and his afterlife would serve to pay his debt to the Donnas of the world. To the Tigs of the world for that matter.

He looked across the table at the Sgt at Arms and felt, for possibly the first time, pity for the older man. There was no Tara, no Donna, no Gemma waiting somewhere for him, a crow tattoo and a fiery love for the killer. And now, no Holly.

Clay banged the gavel down, adjourning the meeting. "You're with me this afternoon. VP," he said as they rose.

"A'ight. Gimme an hour, I gotta take care of something."

***

Even in California, the late fall breeze had a bit of a nip to it. Jax stuffed his hands in his pockets and watched the tree limbs distort the patterns of sunlight on the grass. It was eerily peaceful in the cemetery. It was quiet save for the chatter of songbirds and the rustle of leaves overhead. He stared at the tombstone, at the etched lettering, and fought the urge to touch the granite.

"John Thomas Teller," a voice beside him read aloud. "Now I get why you wanted to meet in a graveyard."

She had walked up so softly he hadn't heard her. He turned, feeling a smile blossom. The ghosts of bruises still shadowed her face and a little fishhook of a scar curled down from the corner of her mouth. She was pale and considerably thinner, but she was alive.

"Hey, Holly," he said. "How you doin'?"

She took a deep breath before she spoke, like she needed the strength. "You know...holding things together. Doctor says to take things easy for a while, but I should make a full recovery."

"That's great, Holly. Really."

She smiled thinly. "I need to thank you...for everything. You and Tara. You guys have been so good to me."

"You're welcome." He turned back to his father's grave, feeling a hollow sort of warmth fill him. It felt nice to help someone, even if the opportunity was a rare one.

"How..." she hesitated and he could almost hear her frown. "How's Tig?"

He sighed. "He thinks youre dead. They all do."

"Oh..."

"I know it's hard, but it's better this way," he told her. "Clay needs Tig too much, he'll never let him settle down. Not ever. You're safer if everyone thinks youre dead."

"Might as well be," she sounded bitter. "My life's just been one fuck up after another."

"It doesn't have to be, not anymore."

She sighed. "I got no parents, no money, how's that supposed to be better?"

He pulled a thick envelope from the inside of his cut and pressed it into her hands. "This is your chance. Go somewhere new and start over, be whoever you want to."

She lifted the flap and paled even further. "Jax...I can't accept this."

"Yeah you can." He nudged her lightly in the arm. "Go on. You're a helluva tough kid. You'll be fine."

"You think?"

"Yeah. I do."

She smiled, genuinely this time, and hugged him. "Bye, Jax," she whispered. "I'd tell you to look after Tigger but I know you'll just kill each other." She meant it as a joke, but he could feel a shudder ripple through her.

He pushed her away gently. "Bye, Holly."

He watched her go, weaving in and around the tombstones back to her Camaro that waited on the street. He found himself thinking that sometimes, despite all their best efforts, things turned out okay in the end.

**Tig**

They waited for Jax to come back and the shadows grew long across the pavement.

"I'm gonna go meet Jury in a week or so. I'll need you to keep an eye on things around here, make sure Gemma's doing alright," Clay said.

He exhaled on the response, smoke mingling with the words. " 'Kay. Sure you dont want me to go?"

"Yeah."

And that was how it had always been, how it always would be. There was one woman and one woman only in Tig's life; Gemma. He was to protect her and his President above all things. The Sgt at Arms patch over his breast pocket may very well have said "Secret Service" on it. "Human Shield" maybe. Not that he was worth anything more...he might as well be good for something.

He forced another lungful of smoke out through his nostrils and he thought the grey haze morphed into an image of Donna's face. Or maybe Holly's. He couldn't be sure.

He watched the sun slip away and didn't have to wonder when he'd stopped being alive. It had been the day they'd hung a reaper on his back and dubbed him "killer". That's what he was, nothing but a goddamned killer.

The End.

________________________________________________________________________

**AN: You guys didn't actually think I'd kill Holly, did you?! I had so much fun writing her, I had to keep her around, leave doors open for the future (wink wink). I want to thank all of you, my lovely readers, for providing such encouragement. I'm sure youre not all Tig fans, so thanks for going with me down this road. It means a lot. **

**I've got some school stuff coming up, but I hope to have the first chapter of my pre-series fic about Chibs joining the Sons up within the next week or so. Until then, long live SOA!**

**-BC.**


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